


Basic Lessons in First Aid, Magical or Otherwise

by stuffy_j



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Amnesiac Castiel (Supernatural), Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Castiel (Supernatural), Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Discussions of Magic Theory, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Nurse Dean Winchester, Oral Sex, Pining, Protective Dean Winchester, References to Past Drug Addiction, Rimming, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Threatened Violence Against a Minor, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Witch Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffy_j/pseuds/stuffy_j
Summary: Most people probably wouldn’t take the naked, heavily wounded man they found in an alley home with them. Most people probably wouldn’t also offer that man a place to stay and become his best friend after realizing he’s suffering from an intense case of post-traumatic retrograde amnesia. Most people probably wouldn’t then risk almost everything they know to save said man, and maybe save the world in the process.But then again, Dean Winchester, RN (with a specialty in supernatural care), has never been like most people. He may not have a magical bone in his body, unlike his brother Sam, but he’ll do whatever it takes to help. EvenifCastiel has questionable opinions about Star Trek.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Mentioned Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester - Relationship, past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester - Relationship, past Ruby/Sam Winchester - Relationship
Comments: 84
Kudos: 491
Collections: DCBB 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to the wonderful [flowersforcas](https://flowersforcas.tumblr.com/) for creating some absolutely stellar art for this fic! Her pieces really blew me away with how dreamily and atmospherically she captured these moments between Dean and Cas throughout the story. Check out her art masterpost [here!](https://flowersforcas.tumblr.com/post/632682467124559872/well-today-is-the-day-to-tide-you-over-until-the)
> 
> I also want to thank [foldingcranes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foldingcranes/pseuds/foldingcranes) for putting up with my incessant whining, constant second-guessing, and stressed out cheez-it consumption. She also provided truly excellent beta reading skills, cheerleading, and constant encouragement throughout this whole process, and I really don't think I could have completed this fic without her help and support! GO READ HER DCBB FIC AS WELL, IT'S EXCELLENT!
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this fic, and I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading!

“I’m calling it,” Dr. Vallens says, and fuck, Dean hates this part. “Time of death, 5:42 a.m. Someone go notify the family.”

One of the orderlies sighs and nods, scurrying down the hallway with her too-quick inhuman gait. Dean closes his eyes for just a moment, because he knows what comes next.

There’s a wail from the waiting area, and he pretends he doesn’t flinch, because no matter how many times he’s done this, no matter how many times he’s witnessed this, it never gets any easier. He looks at Dr. Vallens, who is unhooking the facemask from her ears, and she nods. “I know your shift is almost over,” she says apologetically, “but do you have time to help draw up the paperwork?”

“Of course,” Dean says, unhooking his own mask and glancing down at the faun on the bed. His skin is a pale, washed-out color, eyes closed, face peaceful. Red hair curls tightly around two stubby horns poking up from the top of his head. Dean unclips the oxygen monitor from the tip of the faun’s finger, turns off the heart rate monitor that shows nothing but a flat line. The family will be in here soon, and Dean doesn’t want them to have to deal with all the machines currently droning around them.

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder. Patience, one of the interns, gives him a soft smile. “I’ll handle this,” she says, urging him towards the hallway. “Go get the paperwork done so you can get out of here.”

“Thanks, Patience,” Dean says, giving her a warm smile in return. “Let me know if you have any questions, yeah? I’ll be at the comp if you need me. And don’t get sucked into doing anyone else’s chores, I know you’ve got class in a coupla hours.”

“You got it,” she promises, and turns to the various machines in the room to start turning them off and wheeling them away. Her movements are confident and precise, but Dean lingers for a moment anyway. Just in case. These kinds of nights aren’t easy, not for anyone.

The paperwork is quick. _Time of death: 5:42 a.m. Cause of death: Hypoxemic respiratory failure leading to supraventricular tachycardia. Patient overdosed on vervenalin approx. an hour before arriving on premises. Measures taken: Rescue breathing applied for ten minutes without response. Defibrillator applied three times without success. Next of kin notified: Yes._

He submits the form for Dr. Vallens to review and clocks out, shrugging into his coat as he leaves Heartland Community General. His skin feels too-tight, the way it always does at the end of a difficult shift, like he’s been stretched thin over a drum, and the cold early spring wind whips across his face. His fingers itch for a cigarette suddenly, but Dean tamps down on the craving as he walks down the street towards the enclosed employee parking lot. 

The sun is up but still weak, casting a pale light in between the deep shadows that crisscross haphazardly across the street. It’s nearly April but Dean’s pretty sure he saw snow in the forecast for next week. “Shoulda brought a scarf today,” he grumbles, tucking his face into the flimsy collar of his coat as best he can. It doesn’t do much to help against the biting wind. Fucking Midwestern winters that won’t just give up and let spring come early for a change.

There are a few people rushing past with steaming to-go cups of coffee in their hands, but otherwise the street is empty and quiet, the city in the process of waking up for the day. Dean doesn’t do many overnight shifts, but he can’t deny that there’s a certain peace to walking out of the hospital and onto a still city street. There are a couple of pigeons pecking at an unidentifiable smudge on the sidewalk, cooing softly, but otherwise the street is nearly silent.

Which is the only reason Dean is able to hear a muffled thump coming from the head of an alley as he passes. Startled, he looks down the space, trying to make out any shapes from the early morning gloom. He thinks there might be a dumpster back there -- maybe a raccoon or something got caught in it? Should he call Animal Control? A vet? 

There’s another muffled thump, and something that sounds like a low, pained moan. Dean bites his lower lip, but he knows his mind is already made up.

“Hello?” he calls down the alley, and he’s half-convinced that he’s about to take a rabid raccoon straight to the face. “Is everything okay?” He moves slowly into the shadowed, narrow alley, listening for any more noises.

Something lets out a grunt on the other side of the now-visible dumpster, and Dean freezes for a moment, because that wasn’t an animal. That was too deep to come from a raccoon or a rat or whatever. The image in his head quickly shifts from a rabid raccoon jumping at his face to a feral kid or something. _Why would there be a feral child in this alley?_ the more rational side of his brain tries to ask, but Dean shuts that shit down.

Fuck, he should’ve looked for a makeshift weapon or something to defend himself. Why are there no convenient two-by-fours laying around in this alley? Aren’t all alleys supposed to have convenient two-by-fours laying around in them? He could’ve sworn that was part of city building code. Sucking in a breath, Dean makes a fist around his keys in his pocket, steeling himself to go for the eyes if he has to. It’s the best he can come up with.

Another groan comes from the other side of the dumpster. _Alright, Winchester, time to rip off the band-aid._

Dean jumps forward, brandishing his fist of keys, but the “Nice try, motherfucker!” he was about to shout dies in his throat. Because there’s no feral child, no crafty mugger lying in wait on the other side of the dumpster to accost him. 

There’s a man. And a lot of blood.

“Oh, shit,” Dean says, and the man looks up at him, and even through the bruised slits of his eyes, Dean can tell his gaze is an unearthly blue.

“No --” the man gasps out, and then he coughs, spits out more blood onto the dirty ground, and Dean immediately shifts modes, tucking his keys back into his coat pocket. The man is curled on the pavement, an arm slung almost protectively over his abdomen, and he’s covered in bruises and other marks, some of which are bleeding sluggishly from where they’ve broken the skin. One of his ankles is starting to swell, too, a sure sign of either a badly sprained or broken ankle. His dark hair is plastered to his skull, indicating blood from a probable head injury. 

Oh, and he’s naked. Dean would blink in surprise, but it kind of makes searching for injuries a lot easier. 

“Hey,” Dean says, kneeling down next to the man, going for the soothing voice he uses with patients who are just waking up from anaesthesia, “my name is Dean Winchester, I’m going to help you, okay? Is that okay? I think you need to go to the hospital, which, great news, is literally just up the street.”

That jostles the man into opening his eyes wider, panic making his face go white. “No!” he says again, voice stringent, “No hospital, please! I can’t --” He cuts off with more coughing, and Dean lifts his hands up in surprise at just how forceful this dude is about not going to the hospital. 

“Okay, alright,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice low and easy. “No hospital, I gotcha. But can I help you, at least? I’m a trained nurse, just got off shift actually, so I promise I know what I’m doing.”

The man bites his full lower lip, considering, and then gives a curt nod. “No hospital,” he says again, a warning this time, and Dean nods.

“No hospital. Even though you really should go.”

That earns him a glare, which he would probably find amusing at any time other than literally right this moment with a bleeding and bruised naked man at his feet. Dean reaches out his hand carefully, telegraphing his movements with a slow deliberateness to show that he doesn’t have any tricks up his sleeve. “I’m gonna feel your foot and ankle, okay? To see if something’s broken, or if you just have a bad sprain. Tell me if anything hurts especially bad when I press on it.”

He waits for the man to nod before pressing his fingertips down gently just above the ankle, applying light pressure to the skin and tissue. There doesn’t seem to be any shifting bone underneath his touch, which is a good sign. The man hisses out through his teeth but otherwise doesn’t make any noise.

After feeling over the entire ankle and foot, Dean nods and gives what he hopes is a reassuring pat to the man’s… shin. Right, this dude is still naked. “Well, your ankle isn't broken, just sprained pretty badly,” he says, trying to keep his tone light and positive without letting on about any awkwardness. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take a look at your head now, and then we’ll get you somewhere warm so I can take a look at your ribs, okay? I just need to make sure that you don’t need a brace for a head or spinal injury before I take you anywhere.”

The man squints at him like he can’t quite figure Dean out, but nods in acquiescence. Dean scoots forward enough that he’s able to run his fingers lightly over the man’s scalp and down his neck, moving through his wet and matted hair, though he can’t find any open wounds that would explain why his hair is damp. Maybe it’s not blood? Did he get a bucket of water dumped on him earlier? 

There’s a large bump on the back of the man’s head that feels tender, and it makes him yelp when Dean presses lightly on it. “Don’t touch that!” he says, baring his teeth a little bit at Dean. 

From their closer proximity, Dean can tell that the man’s pupils are dilated and fairly uneven. He frowns, humming distractedly in the back of his throat as he peers closer. “Hey,” he says, holding up a finger, “follow my finger with your eyes. Don’t move your head at all.” He waves it back and forth in front of the man’s face, slowly at first and then faster. 

The man’s eyes keep up at first, but there is a noticeable lag as Dean keeps going, and he puts his finger back down. “I’m pretty sure you have a concussion, though I can’t say for sure unless you let me take you to the hospital and do either an MRI or CT scan --”

“I said no hospitals!” the man snaps, and his eyes seem to glow in the dim light of the alley with the ferocity of his words. “They’ll fi --” he cuts off with another harsh round of coughing, spitting out blood with a groan onto the pavement and clutching his side.

“Shit,” Dean says, trying to jump backwards on his goddamn knees. They bang against the ground and send sparks of pain shooting up his legs. He’s in his scrubs and his coat, kneeling on the dirty ground next to a naked beat up guy who’s spewing bodily fluids all over the place, and not a piece of PPE in sight. This is like the perfect storm to get hepatitis or something. Thinking quickly, he sighs and makes a decision he hopes he doesn’t regret in a few hours. 

“Alright, dude,” he says, sitting back up into a crouching position. “My car isn’t too far from here. I’m going to take you to my place and take a look at your ribs and get you cleaned up. You gotta promise that you’re not gonna steal all my shit and murder me, yeah? Or curse me somehow, if you’ve got magic or whatever. Deal?”

The man looks up at him, blue eyes going more and more unfocused. “I won’t harm you,” he says, the words rasping out of his throat like they’re being dragged over a cheese grater. “Just… please.”

Dean sighs again and reaches down, carefully slinging one of the man’s arms over his shoulder to help him up. “Come on,” he says, “I’ve got some blankets in the trunk so you don’t bleed on Baby’s upholstery. Keep your weight off that ankle while we walk. Lucky for you, it’s still early so no one’s gonna really see all your goods.”

The man grunts as Dean lifts him up, his weight solid and heavy against Dean’s side. He looks down at himself like he’s only just realized he’s naked. “Oh,” he says, a note of surprise coloring his voice, “that’s… good?” 

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, can’t help it from bubbling up. “Okay, keep leaning on me, let’s get you into those blankets before we both catch hypothermia.” 

They stagger forward slowly, and Dean watches from the corner of his eye as the man’s face tightens on nearly every step, though he doesn’t give any other indication of the immense pain he is most likely in. His body is littered with bruises and scrapes, but thankfully nothing too life-threatening on its own. The major risks at this point are the cold and the probable concussion. 

Baby is parked in the employee garage, tucked carefully between two pillars that keep other drivers from parking next to her, and Dean directs the man to lean against the side of the car while he spreads a blanket out over the seat, then sits him down, tucking another two blankets around his shoulders. They’re a little musty smelling from spending too much time in the trunk, but Dean knows they’re thick and warm. He steps back from his work, looking down at the bundled up man, who looks suddenly small and hunched in his blanket cocoon. 

“You good?” he asks, then winces. “I mean, are the blankets okay?” he amends himself. “Sorry, dumb question.”

The man gives a small smile and nods. “They’re warm,” he says, voice husky. His eyelids seem to be drooping, which, oh no, that’s not allowed to happen.

Dean gets into the car and turns it on, turning the heat on low enough that it won’t feel like burning air to the man. “Hey,” he says, turning towards him and snapping his fingers in his face a few times. It’s rude but has the intended effect, as the man jerks up and looks more alert. “No sleeping until we get to my place and I can figure out what’s going on with your head,” Dean warns. “Which means you gotta talk to me.”

“About what,” the man grouses, pulling a blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“I don’t care. Whatever you want.” Dean shifts the car into drive and pulls out of the garage, heading towards his apartment. 

The man doesn’t say anything, just stares at the side of Dean’s head. 

“Oooookay,” Dean says, tapping his fingers against the soft leather of the steering wheel. “I’ll pick the topic, I guess. What’s your name, for starters?”

The man blinks, eyes struggling to focus. “I --” he says, then pauses, frowns. He’s quiet for a few moments, mouth struggling to shape an answer. “Castiel,” he says finally.

“Castiel?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Is that an old family name or something? I don’t think I’ve ever met a Castiel before. You got a last name?”

The man -- no, Castiel now -- furrows his brow, like he’s not sure what Dean means. Maybe it’s a cultural thing; there are certain groups of fairies that don’t use their clan name as their surname, though most people and creatures use them by now. Or it could be a memory thing. 

“You know,” Dean says, trying to explain, “a last name. My full name’s Dean Winchester. Winchester is my last name.”

Castiel appears to think for another moment, then shakes his head very slightly. “Just Castiel,” he says. “If I have a last name… I can’t remember. I’m not even sure where I am, honestly.”

Dean frowns and glances at him from the corner of his eye. “That’s not a great sign,” he says. “Impaired memory and memory loss are pretty concrete symptoms of a bad concussion, and maybe something even worse. Do you remember what happened?”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head and winces, but he just leaves it at that. He probably has a pretty nasty headache, all things considered.

“Take it easy, we’ll figure it out,” Dean says, and he smoothly parks the Impala outside of his building. “Okay, let’s get you inside and cleaned up.”

Thankfully no one gets onto the elevator as they ride it up, and Dean sends up a silent thank you (that he will never voice out loud) that Sam convinced him to live somewhere with an actual elevator and not another fifth floor walk-up. Castiel leans against him the whole way, and his face looks pale and exhausted, his eyes rimmed with red. He still has one of the blankets clutched around his shoulders.

Dean ushers him inside his apartment and makes him sit down on the couch. “I’m gonna go get my first aid kit, and then I’ll take a look at your ribs,” he says, heading for the bathroom. He digs under the sink for the kit, and also pulls out a roll of gauze tape with it. His hand knocks against a bottle of Tylenol, but he knows it’s expired, so he leaves it behind. 

Castiel looks like he’s about to nod off again as Dean walks back into the living room. He’s made himself at home on Dean’s plaid couch that has definitely seen better days, leaned back against it like he’s taken many a nap on it before, the blanket falling down around his shoulders. 

“Hey, no sleeping yet,” Dean says, putting the kit on the coffee table and snapping it open. Castiel startles awake again, his eyes focusing on Dean immediately. Even with the (more than likely) concussion, he’s sharp, Dean has to admit. His gaze feels like it’s peeling Dean apart layer by layer, letting Castiel peer inside to his very core. It’s unsettling but exhilarating at the same time, and, shit, Dean realizes he’s been staring back for way too long. 

He blinks rapidly, and Castiel’s head tilts a degree to the side. “Um,” Dean says, scrambling for his derailed train of thought, “right, okay, I just need to… uh, if you could pull the blanket down, I’ll finish patching you up.”

“Okay,” Castiel drops the blanket, letting it pool around his hips on the couch, and if Dean wasn’t a consummate professional he’d totally let himself be distracted by the wall of muscle that greets him. As it is, he kneels down to get a closer look at the bruised skin.

Opening the med kit, he rolls on a pair of medical grade latex gloves, brows starting to knit together. Maybe it was just the lighting in the alley, but Dean could’ve sworn Castiel’s injuries were much worse the last time he’d taken a look. He presses his fingertips lightly into Castiel’s side, feeling for anything wrong beneath the skin.

“Is there any pain?” he asks, pressing just above Castiel’s ribs. It’s a rather nasty bruise, and Castiel recoils.

“Yes,” he hisses, “that hurts. Quite a bit.”

Dean hums, biting his lip in concentration. Nothing feels broken beneath his touch, which is odd, because Castiel has definitely sustained some sort of abdominal injury -- he’d been clutching his sides when Dean had found him, like he had a fractured rib. “It’s possible you bruised your ribs, on the bone itself,” he muses out loud, “but I can’t confirm that without --”

Castiel makes a small snarling sound, and Dean glances up in surprise.

“How many times do I have to say _no hospitals_.” Castiel’s eyes are narrow slits, his mouth a hard line as he glares at Dean. 

Swallowing against an instinctive burst of fear, Dean glares right back at him. “I already told you I wouldn’t make you go to a hospital,” he snaps. “If I was lying, you’d already be at one. Are you gonna trust me or not?”

Castiel glares at him for another moment, then slumps back with a sigh. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away. “I’m -- my apologies. Keep going.”

With a huff, Dean pulls out a couple of antiseptic wipes and gauze from the kit, his skin buzzing, because holy _shit_ that had been an intense moment. “This may sting a bit,” he says, softening his tone, offering a metaphorical olive branch. Castiel nods and shifts on the couch, turning a bit so Dean has easier access to his back, where the worst of the scrapes are. 

Both of them are quiet while Dean carefully cleans and bandages Castiel up, only the sounds of people heading to work outside Dean’s door filling the air. Castiel doesn’t make any noises of pain or discomfort, though Dean can see his eyes tightening when he disinfects a few of the larger scrapes. As he finishes, he can tell Castiel is quickly on his way to falling asleep, his chin starting to droop down to his chest, his breathing slower. He looks… better than when Dean found him, that’s for sure. Some of the pained lines on his face have smoothed out, though the bags under his eyes still seem fairly pronounced. Dean wonders when the last time this guy slept was, and he makes a quick decision.

The med kit snaps shut louder than Dean expected, and Castiel returns to alertness with another start. “Ah, sorry,” Dean mumbles, using the arm of the couch as leverage to get up off the ground, wincing as his knees pop a bit. “Just let me get you some spare clothes, and you can sleep here, okay? I’m also beat, so we’ll figure out next steps after some rest.”

Castiel nods, so Dean slips into his darkened bedroom, rummaging through his drawers for an old pair of sweatpants and a shirt. He pulls out a stretched-out gray AC/DC shirt and folds it over his arm. He hesitates for a moment, hovering over his underwear drawer, before he decides he’s not willing to let a stranger wear his boxers. Just a little too weird for now.

Back in the living room, Castiel is examining one of the larger bandages on his side covering a laceration that runs from his oblique to nearly up to his shoulder blade, his back to Dean. Thankfully it hadn’t required stitches -- which had been unexpected -- but Dean had hissed in sympathy as he’d cleaned it out, because whatever had left it had been nasty. 

Dean’s eyes travel down the line of Castiel’s back, looking over his handiwork to make sure he hasn’t missed anything and… oh. Castiel has dropped the blanket, his whole body on display. Powerful thighs connect to a well-muscled torso, his thick waist curving into his shapely ass --

“Here you go!” Dean says, his voice about an octave higher than it should be. He chucks the clothes across the room, a hot flush creeping up his cheeks as he whips himself around so he can’t see Castiel anymore. Fuck, he’s such a fucking asshole, checking out the _injured, possibly homeless dude_ without him knowing. Sure, it’s been a while since his last relationship ended, but he is _not_ that hard up. Cas may be ridiculously attractive -- only a person without _eyes_ couldn’t see that -- but Dean has a strong personal “don’t be creepy” policy that he lives by. And right now he’s shattering it six ways to Sunday.

“Thank you, Dean,” he hears Castiel say, the telltale rustling of fabric in the background.

Dean clears his throat. “You decent?” he asks after a few moments.

“Yes.”

When he turns back around, Castiel is indeed wearing the clothes. Dean notes, a little hysterically, that his thighs seem to be testing the limits of the sweatpants. “Great!” he says, and he knows he sounds manic but maybe he can blame it on sleep deprivation. “There’s some clean towels in the bathroom if you wake up and want to take a shower, and you’ve got some pillows for the couch and the blanket, so you’re all set.”

Castiel nods and picks the blanket up off the floor. “Where should I leave it when I wake up?” he asks.

“What?” Dean says, taken aback.

“For when I leave later,” Castiel says. “Should I just fold the blanket over the couch?”

“Who says you’re leaving?” Dean frowns. “You’re still injured, not to mention concussed. I need to monitor you and make sure I didn’t miss anything, or make sure nothing gets worse. If you wake up before me, feel free to help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge if you’re hungry, I guess, but I’m not gonna kick you out or anything.”

Castiel gives him a small, grateful smile, and it makes something in Dean’s heart twist strangely. “I understand. Thank you again, Dean. You’ve been very kind.”

“Just doing my job, man,” Dean deflects. “Go ahead, get some sleep. I’ll talk with you later, Cas.”

Castiel blinks and tilts his head a degree, but then his smile grows wider.

“Talk to you later,” he promises.


	2. Chapter 2

Late afternoon sun slips through a crack in the blinds and washes across Dean’s face, waking him up. He flips over onto his stomach with a grumble, burying his face in the pillow and trying to slide back into sleep, to no avail. When he’s awake, he’s awake, and there’s no going back now.

Dean sits up with a groan, burying his head in his hands and trying to shake the cobwebs from his brain. God, he hates nightshift. Even though he only does it every few weeks, it messes with him every time, leaving him feeling like he’s dealing with a weird hangover. He needs a shower, coffee, and some food, in that order.

At that moment, his stomach lets out the gnarliest growl Dean’s ever heard, and he snorts. Alright. Food first, then.

The door hinges whine a little bit as he pushes it open, reminding Dean he needs to oil them soon. And then a messy head pops up from the couch, eyes squinting blearily in his direction, and, oh shit, right --

“Shit! Sorry, Cas,” Dean says, suddenly painfully aware that he’s only wearing a pair of sweatpants. He can feel heat rising in his cheeks, and he tries to viciously stomp down on it. “Ah, you hungry?” he asks, striding towards the kitchen, attempting to mask the fact that he’d somehow _completely forgotten about the injured man on his couch_ while asleep. “I was going to make some food.”

Castiel tilts his head and stares at Dean like he’s speaking gibberish. He’s silent for a few moments, and Dean can literally see the neurons waking up and connecting in his head as Cas’ eyes light up. “Yes,” he says, his voice still sleep-rough and even deeper than usual, “I appreciate the offer. Food sounds wonderful. Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem,” Dean wheezes out. God, he has _got_ to get ahold of himself. He blindly pulls out eggs and milk from the fridge, then turns to rifle through the pantry for a box of pancake mix, putting a pan on the stove to preheat. “How does breakfast for dinner sound?”

Cas has apparently decided to get off the couch, and he wanders to peer over Dean’s shoulder at the stove. “What are you making?” he asks, curious.

“Just some eggs and pancakes,” Dean answers. Cas is so close he can feel his body heat against his bare shoulder.

“Pancakes?” Cas sounds confused, and Dean turns his head in surprise.

“You don’t know pancakes? Dude, where the hell have you been living? Under a rock?”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Cas says, stricken, and Dean softens immediately.

“Hey, no worries, I was just surprised is all. If you want to watch me make them, go ahead, just give me a little space, yeah? Or you can go sit down at the table and I’ll bring them over when they’re done,” he says, whisking milk and a touch of vanilla and cinnamon into a bowl with the batter. “After we eat, I want to check your head again.” A thought strikes him, and Dean winces, because holy shit, his whole job is being a _nurse_ and right now he is fucking that up spectacularly, because, “Uh, I, ah, should’ve asked already, but… how are you feeling today?”

Castiel backs up a bit and shrugs. “I feel much better than before, though my head still feels… strange,” he says.

“Strange how?” Dean pours a couple dollops of batter into the pan. “Do you feel lethargic, or have any sharp pain? Low-grade pain is still pretty normal right now.”

“No, it’s not that.” Castiel shakes his head, a line appearing between his brows as he frowns. “It just feels… I’m not sure how to describe it. Like it’s too light, somehow, but weighted down.”

Dean purses his lips, flipping over the pancakes. “What about your pain?”

“I feel fine.”

That makes Dean put down his spatula and turn to stare at Cas. “You were majorly fucked up just this morning,” he says slowly. “But you feel fine now?”

Castiel shrugs again. “Yes.”

“Other than your head, which isn’t actually in pain.”

“Yes.”

Dean stares at him. Cas stares back, placid. A burning smell starts to permeate the air.

“I think it’s burning,” Cas points out, snapping Dean back into the moment.

The pancake is definitely charcoal on one side. “Shit,” Dean snaps, tossing it into the trash can. “Dude, how much magic do you _have_?” He pours another dollop of (rapidly dwindling) batter into the pan. “Are you, like, part fairy or something? I’ve treated fast healing species before, but I’ve never seen it in humans. Not even my brother, and he’s like, swimming up to his eyeballs in magic all the time.”

There’s no answer. Dean glances at Cas from the corner of his eye and sees Cas staring at his own hands like they belong to a stranger. Maybe the memory issues are more deep-seated than he’d thought, but with Cas’ demonstrated… _aversion_ to hospitals, it was going to be difficult to get him checked out, much less to see a neurologist. Dean flips another couple of pancakes onto a plate. He might be able to ask Rowena to take a look at him, even though he knows she hates taking on charity cases. But she and Sam owed Dean after he’d helped them patch up their workshop after a botched spell had resulted in a pretty nasty fire slime --

“What does it feel like to have magic?” Cas asks, and Dean startles and flips a pancake too quickly, smushing it into a weird shape in the pan. He curses, trying to poke it back into something that is more pancake-shaped than an amorphous blob. 

Castiel looks at him expectantly. “Uh,” Dean fumbles, depositing the misshapen pancake on the plate, “I’m not really… sure. Don’t really have any myself. ‘S why I’m a nurse. Don’t need magic when you’ve got science.” He chuckles lightly, scrambling a bunch of eggs in a bowl and dumping them into a clean pan. “My brother Sam might have a better answer for you, though. He’s an apprentice to Rowena MacLeod. Got magic coming out his fingertips, or at least that’s what it seems. I can probably introduce you to him tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it. Alright, dig in!” He deposits all the food on the table and sits down across from Castiel, grabbing a plate and forking several pancakes onto it. 

At the first bite, Castiel’s eyes widen almost comically, and he begins shoveling food into his mouth at a nearly alarming rate. Dean watches, slack jawed, as Castiel downs four of the pancakes in record time, and then starts in on the fluffy pile of eggs he’d taken for himself. “Whoa, buddy, slow down there!” Dean says. “You’re gonna make yourself sick at that pace. Food ain’t going anywhere, I promise.”

A faint blush colors Cas’ cheeks, but he continues to eat like there’s no tomorrow. “This is very good,” he praises after finally swallowing down the last bite. 

“It’s not that hard, I can show you how to make this if you want,” Dean offers. “I just add a couple extra ingredients to some basic pancake mix.”

Castiel looks dubiously at the stove. “Maybe,” he says, and leaves it at that.

After cleaning up (with Cas standing just behind him watching with interest as Dean scrubs the dirty dishes at the sink), Dean makes Cas sit on the couch again and pulls out the med kit. He peels the bandages away from several of the more serious wounds that he’d patched up earlier.

Instead of the fresh, painful scrapes and lacerations that he’d had earlier, Castiel’s injuries look more like two-week old wounds, the bruising around them faint or faded completely. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead and stay there as he continues to examine Cas, keeping his touch light even though there’s no pain on Cas’ face. Even his ankle, which had been sprained severely, seems to have rapidly progressed: Dean squeezes it lightly, but Castiel doesn’t yelp or hiss in pain.

“Well,” he says, snapping off his disposable gloves, “I don’t exactly have a baseline test to compare you against, but follow my finger with your eyes, okay? Don’t turn your head at all, just your eyes.” 

Castiel nods, and his eyes follow Dean’s finger perfectly. The hazy look he’d had is also gone, Dean notes. When he carefully runs his hands over Cas’ head, the painful bump has disappeared. “Okay, let’s try some basic questions,” he says. “What day is it?”

“I… don’t know,” Castiel frowns. “Um. Thursday?”

Dean hums in consideration. “I’ll let that one slide, considering we both slept through the majority of the day. Hell, I barely know what day it is right now, and I didn’t get knocked on the head. Okay, let’s try another one. Who’s the president?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s two plus two?”

“Four.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“No… no, I can’t recall.” Frustration leaks through Castiel’s tone and he narrows his eyes like he’s trying to concentrate. “All I remember is… is waking up to you standing over me and talking about hospitals. Which I’m not going to.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean says wearily. He closes the med kit still sitting next to him. “Do you know where you’re from? Is there anyone you can call, like a family member or a friend?”

“I don’t --” Castiel lets out an explosive sigh. “I can’t remember. I have no idea.”

Sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, Dean considers the options. “You have a pretty severe case of post-traumatic retrograde amnesia going on,” he outlines, “and there’s no knowing if or when those memories will come back. It could be in fifteen minutes, it could be a year from now, it could be never. As far as I know, you didn’t have any ID on you when I found you since you were, uh. Naked.” He feels his face heating up because apparently he’s a disaster creep who can’t get his shit together, but he plows ahead. “If you’re from around here, you might have family or friends looking for you, and Sam might be able to help out with a tracking spell or something. What do you think? You can stay with me until we figure this out, if you want.”

Surprise flits across Castiel’s face. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes Dean’s palms sweat just a bit. “I really appreciate what you’re doing to help me. I don’t know what I can do to repay you.”

“I’d be a pretty shitty nurse if I just let a dude with amnesia walk out of here without even trying to figure out who you could call.” Dean says, scrubbing his sweaty hands on his sweatpants to try to dry them off. Doesn’t work -- fuck, he needs a shower, and probably some more sleep. Night shift is a bitch. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll let my brother know we’re gonna stop by tomorrow at some point. You should get some more sleep, let your head rest a bit longer.”

With a small nod, Castiel goes back over to the couch, draping the blanket over his shoulders once again. “What time will we go see your brother tomorrow?” he asks.

Dean pulls out his phone and sends a quick text to Sam. _Is it cool if I stop by tomorrow with a friend?_

Sam responds almost immediately. _Doing a spell that requires dawn’s light, so you can come over any time after that._

“Sam says we can stop by any time.” Dean slides his phone back into the pocket of his sweatpants. “I tend to wake up on the early side after night shifts, so we can go after coffee, if that sounds good.”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. He looks around the couch area for a moment, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Um. Could I borrow some more clothes from you again, tomorrow morning? I’d prefer to not be in pajamas when I meet your brother. Or naked.”

A laugh punches out of Dean’s mouth, unexpected and light. “Yeah, man. Of course. Get some rest, okay? I’ll wake you up before we head out.”

Before he closes the door to his bedroom, he sees a glimpse of Castiel carefully smoothing the blanket over his legs on the couch before laying down, like it’s new to him. Quietly, something aches in Dean’s heart.

***

The brass sign on the door glints in the late morning light, declaring _Rowena MacLeod & Associates_ in a font more indicative of a law firm than a spellwork shop. Underneath is another, smaller sign asking visitors to please refrain from bringing drinks onto the premises. With a sigh, Dean takes one last gulp from his to-go coffee he’d grabbed on the way over and chucks the paper cup into a nearby trash can. 

Next to him, Castiel shuffles awkwardly, pulling at the sleeves of the sweater Dean had let him borrow. It’s a little too tight around his biceps, which had most definitely _not_ sent Dean into a private meltdown when Cas had first tried it on. So what if the navy color brings out Cas’ eyes. Just another thing about him that Dean has made a _point_ of not noticing. 

Fuck, he shouldn’t have thrown his coffee away already. 

He jams his finger into the little doorbell next to the sign with more force than necessary. There’s a faint chime from inside, and then the sound of heavy footsteps. Sam opens the door, his giant body filling the frame, a wide smile on his face. There’s a cup of gently steaming coffee in his hand.

“Hey, Dean! Come on in. And this is your friend, I’m guessing?” he asks, stepping back to let them in. An oak-panelled hallway stretches behind him, lit by dim sconces in burnished copper sheaths. The smell of fresh coffee floats down the length of the corridor. 

“This is Cas. Uh, Castiel, I mean,” Dean says, blinking to adjust to the shift in lighting. “Dude, the sign out front says no drinks. Or is that just for us plebs?”

Sam smiles again. “Rowena put that up after the last time you were here and you spilled your coffee all over the spell she’d spent two days setting up. Most of our rules are Dean rules, now that I think about it.”

“Like what?” Dean all but squawks. 

“No outside beverages, no outside _food_ , no headphones on in the spell chamber, no watching Netflix in the spell chamber, no unbuttoned or unzippered coats in the spell chamber--”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand hotly across the back of his neck. Next to him, Cas snorts in amusement. “Alright, if we’re done listing my myriad fuck-ups, can we get down to business?”

Sam nods and leads them down the hallway, passing several closed doors before stopping in front of one that has an intricate sigil carved into it. He puts his hand on the wood just below the sigil, which lights up with a faint white glow before dissipating, then knocks briskly.

“Come in,” a lilting voice calls from inside. Sam pushes open the door, revealing Rowena perched on top of a large mahogany desk, scribbling notes down on a pad, a flowing blue gown draped elegantly down her shoulders. A delicate-looking china teacup hovers in the air next to her, steam wisping from the surface. She looks up as the three of them enter, taking the cup and sipping from it. “Samuel, I’ve told you,” she admonishes, “you don’t have to knock before coming into my office.”

“After that time with Ben? I really do,” Sam says with a rueful chuckle. 

Rowena rolls her eyes and sets down her notepad. “Honestly, you walk in on one little tryst and immediately get your panties in a bunch. I thought I’d taught you better than that.”

“To be fair, it wasn’t just the time with Ben. There was Louis, and Francis, and Catriona, and Eloise, and Marcus, and --”

“Yes, thank you, I can remember my own escapades quite clearly without you listing them off for me.” A manicured finger props against her red lips in thought. “When was Eloise?”

“Vernal equinox, last year.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across Rowena’s face. “Ah, yes. I should give her a call sometime soon.”

With a huff, Dean puts a hand on Cas’ back and pushes him forward. “You and Sam can put a meeting on the calendar to discuss your dating life, Rowena,” he says. “If you don’t mind, can we talk about what we came here for?”

The teacup floats down to settle firmly on the desk as Rowena sighs. “You Winchesters, always so bossy,” she complains, but she strides forward to stare up at Castiel. “Alright, fine, let’s get down to brass tacks. You’re the one who can’t remember anything?”

Castiel looks at Dean, eyes wide in surprise. Dean shrugs. Rowena is brilliant but intense, and more than a little ruthless, which often takes people by surprise. The first time he’d met her, Rowena had given him a cup of tea that had been brewed with a hex bag. Sam had stopped him from drinking it at the last moment, and Rowena had offered him an apprenticeship on the spot.

Swallowing faintly, Castiel nods. “Yes. I know my name but nothing else. Dean found me yesterday morning, in an alley near his work.”

“We were wondering if you two had any sort of tracking or tracing spells that could maybe help us find some of Cas’ family or friends, so that way we could contact them and let them know about Cas,” Dean adds. “Figured the two strongest witches in town have to have _something_ up their sleeves.”

A little flattery never hurt, especially not with Rowena. 

Sam shifts, crossing his arms as his face morphs into what Dean calls _constipated concentration._ “There are a couple of options we could try, depending on how big an area you want to search. And they all require something connected to the person or people you’re trying to find, like a lock of hair, or a possession of some kind.”

“Aye, Samuel’s right,” Rowena confirms, stepping back a bit from Castiel but still squinting up at him, like she’s looking directly at a relatively bright light. “Do you have anything that could be a token from a family member? A small photograph, perhaps, or a wedding ring? A piece of clothing?”

A faint blush suffuses Castiel’s cheeks, but his expression doesn’t shift. “I was, ah, naked when Dean found me. No possessions on or near my person, as far as I can recall.”

Both Rowena and Sam’s eyebrows shoot into their hairlines and Dean groans. “My, my, Dean Winchester,” Rowena practically purrs, delight lighting up the depths of her hazel eyes, “you found a naked, amnesiac man in an alley and brought him home with you? How… scandalous.”

“You can alert the society papers tomorrow,” Dean grouses. “I found him, he needed help, I offered him help. So far it seems to be working out for everyone. Any other questions?”

“Have you been to the hospital yet?” Sam asks, clearly trying to think through all possible avenues. Dean wishes he could tell Sam to save his breath.

It’s like a wall comes down over Castiel’s face. He goes stony and silent, radiating disapproval from every fiber of his being.

“No hospitals,” Dean and Cas say in unison. “Yeah, I tried that,” Dean continues. “But Spotless Mind here refuses to go.”

“What does that mean,” Cas frowns.

“So unless we have something connected to a friend or family member, there’s nothing you can do to help Cas?” Dean asks, ignoring Castiel.

“Afraid so.” Rowena picks up the teacup and takes a long sip. “Sorry, boys. If you can think of anything else we could try, let me know.”

“Damn,” Dean sighs. What a bust. He could still be enjoying his coffee right now if he’d put any thought into this. Of course you can’t do a tracking spell without something to actually _track_.

“What about my magic?” Cas says into the silence. Everyone looks at him in clear surprise. “Dean said I must have some, when he was helping me. Could that be tracked back to someone who knows me?”

Rowena makes a considering noise and sets down her tea again. There’s a spark of light that leaps from her fingertip to the saucer, and faint wisps of steam begin floating up from the liquid inside. “It would depend on the type of magic you have, its source,” she explains, circling around Castiel with a new gleam in her eyes. “For example, if it’s a familial magic, then I might be able to use part of it for tracking purposes. Or even if someone you know had imbued you with it, perhaps. Its essence could act as a homing beacon, in a way.”

There’s an uncomfortable set to Cas’ shoulders that Dean can tell he’s trying to disguise, and when did he learn to read the dude’s body language so clearly. He can’t really blame Cas, honestly; Rowena still gives him the heebs and sometimes the jeebs when she gets into a focused mood like now. 

“I can see how that would work,” Sam says, slow, like he’s working out the logical leaps in a puzzle. “But in order to run the tracking spell, we’d need a physical manifestation of the magic, wouldn’t we? How would we get that?”

“I’m sure we could devise something,” Rowena says cheerily. “Not everything needs to be a centuries-old ritual, you know. Experimenting can be quite fun.”

“Experimenting?” Dean asks, but either no one hears him or they all choose to ignore him, which he’s pretty used to whenever people get deep into the nitty-gritty of magic theory. 

But Sam turns to him, and Dean relaxes a bit, because he knows his brother can sometimes rein Rowena in when it comes to her more daring and, uh, dangerous ideas. Except Sam opens his big mouth and asks, “How did you figure out Castiel has magic? You don’t have any witch-sight at all.”

The reminder shouldn’t sting, but it does anyway, and Dean hunches instinctively, the way he always does when someone questions his lack of magical ability. He knows Sam doesn’t mean it that way, but, well. Still doesn’t stop it from hurting somewhere deep inside a forgotten place in his chest. He opens his mouth to explain, but Cas beats him to it.

“When Dean found me, I had been badly injured, including a blow to the head which has clearly impacted my memory,” he outlines, “but Dean noticed that I healed from my wounds much more rapidly than I should have. He asked me how much magic I have, and while I cannot recall my magical capabilities or core, I assume I must have some, otherwise I wouldn’t have healed the way I did.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Sam says, face edging back towards constipation again. “And you’re sure it’s because you have magic, not that you’re a non-human of some sort?” He looks to Dean, who shrugs.

“As far as I can tell, Cas is as human as they come,” he explains, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Other than the healing factor, which you know has been historically documented among some witchlines.”

“Aye, very true, very true,” Rowena says, airy. “There are stories of the MacLeods once having such powers in their blood, but those are from centuries ago.” She gestures Castiel towards a well-upholstered wingback chair in one corner of her office. “If you could just sit down, there’s a dear. You’re all a bit too tall for my tastes, and I’ll need to look directly into your eyes for this next part.”

Dean shifts, strangely nervous. “Why do you need to look in his eyes?”

Rowena goes over to a small cabinet and pulls out a mortar and pestle and several bundles of herbs, beginning to grind them into a paste on her desk. “Well, the eyes are the windows to the soul and all that. They make great conduits for magic, as well. And Castiel’s eyes are just so clear and stunning, it’ll make this process a breeze. That was a compliment, dear,” she throws over her shoulder at Cas.

“Oh. Thank you,” Cas says, sounding confused. Dean attempts to bite back a chuckle, which turns into a weird choked noise in his throat instead, and proceeds to studiously ignore Sam’s glance.

After a few more moments of grinding, Rowena swipes the herb paste underneath Cas’ eyes, which immediately start watering from the pungent concoction. Then her pale hands grip the sides of his face, forcing their gazes together as she begins to chant lowly. Dean thinks it’s Ancient Greek, though he’s not sure. 

Nothing happens at first, but as Rowena keeps chanting, Cas’ mouth drops open, just enough to see inside. And then twin pinpricks of light appear in the center of his pupils, growing incrementally larger and larger, turning his irises an almost unearthly shade of blue. There’s also a glow coming from inside his mouth, Dean realizes, the same as the light in his eyes, like it’s in Cas’ throat and about to spill out. The light glows brighter and brighter, filling Cas’ mouth and his eyes with a brilliant white light that’s nearly unbearable to look at. Rowena is chanting louder and louder, voice swirling around the room like it’s no longer hers to command, and Dean realizes with a start that unnatural tears are streaming down Rowena’s cheeks -- she can’t tear her gaze away from the light beginning to pour out of Castiel.

Sam must realize the same thing, because he stumbles forward, trying to shield his own eyes from the blinding light, and puts a hand on Rowena’s shoulder, shaking her vigorously. “Rowena, stop!” he calls out, shouting to make his voice heard over her own. “Rowena! Stop the spell!”

With a gasp, Rowena flings herself back, closing her eyes and crossing her hands over her mouth like it’s the only way she can think to stop the flood of words. The light immediately fades from Cas’ eyes and mouth, receding back into him, and he slumps over in the chair, gasping for air as well.

“What the hell was that?” Dean demands, blinking rapidly as he tries to adjust back to the normal lighting of the room. There’s wetness on his cheeks -- he must’ve been crying, too. He scrubs at his face with the end of his sleeve. “Seriously, what the hell just happened? Was that normal?”

Rowena’s eyes are rimmed in bright red, her cheeks abnormally pale as she struggles to get her breathing under control. “That was…” she begins, clearly searching for words. She levels her gaze on Castiel, who is beginning to sit back up, his breathing still labored. “That was powerful. Powerful and extremely old. But that -- that was just the residue of your magic,” she says, voice thin and reedy. 

“What do you mean, just the residue?” Sam asks. There are the remains of tears on his own cheeks, Dean notices. They were all affected by what just happened.

“Whatever the source of your power is, it’s missing,” Rowena explains. “The residue you have retained is burning bright for now, but without the source to replenish it, it will dwindle away. And, unfortunately, without the source, we cannot run the tracking spell.”

“What? How does that make any sense?” Dean demands. Seriously, how does that make any goddamn sense? 

Rowena takes a breath and it’s like her whole being settles back into itself when she exhales. Dean is reminded of a ruffled bird smoothing its feathers back down. “Think of it this way,” she says, “imagine if a patient came into the hospital and, somehow, all of their bones had been shattered, but they handed you a single shard and asked you to put it back where it belonged. Would you be able to do so?”

“That would never happen.”

“That wasn’t my question.” Rowena shakes her head. “Would you be able to slot the shard of bone back into its rightful place in their body?”

“I mean, probably not --”

“Exactly,” Rowena interrupts him. “While the residue still within Castiel is a bit more substantial than a shard of bone, I cannot simply track down the source it was taken from and slot it back in. It would be a long, complicated process that would, most likely, do more harm than good.”

It makes sense, Dean has to admit, but he still blows out a frustrated breath and scrubs a hand through his hair. Across from him, Castiel slumps in the chair, disappointment etched across his face. Dean’s heart aches in sympathy for him -- it can’t be easy, being told that there’s no way to get in touch with anyone who knows you. No way to get back to an environment that might help you regain your own memories. 

There’s a few uncomfortable moments of silence while everyone digests the news. “So, what next?” Sam finally says, shifting his weight awkwardly.

It gets Cas to open his eyes and sit back up in the chair, though he sighs and digs the heel of his palms into his eyes before looking at the rest of them. “I don’t wish to overextend your help and hospitality any more than I already have,” he gravels out, “but I’m not quite sure what I should do next. Are there any other resources I can look into? Somewhere I can stay?”

“Whoa, what?” Dean startles, moving over to Cas’ side and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Dude, you can keep staying with me. I’m not going to kick you out or anything, I swear.”

Castiel looks up at him, and Dean realizes that he has a hint of stubble on his face, defining his sharp jaw and cheekbones. His eyes bore into Dean’s own, crinkling a little at the corners as he gives him a small smile. “I appreciate all your help, Dean, but like I said, I don’t wish to overstay my welcome --”

“You’re not overstaying anything,” Dean interrupts. “Seriously, I’m more than happy to keep helping, I promise. I ain’t gonna stop you if you want to leave, but I’m also not gonna make you go.”

“How noble,” Rowena flutters her eyes at them. “Such declarations -- makes me feel like I’m a wee lass watching one of my ma’s stories with her again.”

A flash of embarrassment runs down Dean’s spine, but whatever. He means it, even if he sounds like a telenovela. He wants Cas to stay as long as he needs to, wants to keep helping Cas. Dean barely knows the guy, but he’s not heartless, not by a long shot. 

“Well,” Castiel says, still sounding a bit unsure, “I suppose another few days of recovery are necessary, if that’s fine by you.”

“This sounds like a conversation for outside my office,” Rowena interrupts, clapping her hands together abruptly. “I have a potential client coming in soon that we need to prepare for, Samuel. You know, someone who might actually give us money for my magic.”

Dean glances at Sam, confused. “I thought you didn’t have anything today after your sunrise ritual or whatever.” He generally tries to be conscientious of his little brother’s time, especially where Rowena is involved. Her patience can shift like the tides, and a pissed off Rowena is a _scary_ Rowena. 

“It’s a bit of a last minute appointment,” Rowena answers instead of Sam. “They sent a message early this morning requesting a consultation; you’re just lucky you showed up before they did, otherwise we’d have been a bit tied up.” She gestures at Castiel to get out of the armchair. “Up you go, there’s a good lad. Samuel will see you out. Good luck, I’d say please don’t hesitate to contact me if I can be of any further assistance but, well, you aren’t paying me!”

“We’ll help if we can,” Sam promises, ignoring Rowena rolling her eyes as he leads them out of the office and back down the hall. “Sorry this was a bust. But I’ll see you guys later, right, Dean?”

They step back out onto the sidewalk in front of the building, the sun inching its way closer to noon. “Yeah, just let me know when you’re free. Sounds like you might have some long hours coming up, though.”

Sam shrugs but smiles. “Hopefully it won’t be too bad. Rowena seemed really excited when she got the message this morning. I think she’s been wanting a challenge for a while. And hopefully it’ll make the months before getting my title go a lot faster.”

“Don’t work yourself too hard, okay?” Dean says, playfully slapping Sam on the shoulder. His gut twists inside him. “Don’t need you disappearing for weeks on end.” _Again,_ he doesn’t say, though he’s sure Sam hears it, judging by the way his eyes flicker even though his smile doesn’t budge. Keeping it up in front of Castiel. Nonverbal communication has always been a Winchester skill.

Or maybe a curse, Dean hasn’t quite decided on that yet.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Sam says, and he turns to Cas, holding his hand out. “It was great to meet you. Hopefully I’ll see you again soon, if you plan on sticking around for a bit. I know I’ve already apologized, but I really am sorry we couldn’t help more.”

Castiel eyes his hand like he’s not quite sure what Sam is trying to do, but he carefully reaches out with his own and takes it. Sam shakes his hand, and Dean smirks as Cas’ shoulder jostles up and down at the clearly unfamiliar movement. 

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says, when Sam lets his hand go. “I look forward to seeing you again soon, as well.” He looks at Dean. “What next?”

***

Dean takes Cas to his favorite local diner, where his favorite local vampire serves up the best food in town, in Dean’s opinion. Introducing Benny and Cas is… interesting. Dean is struck by an image of a mischievous crow tugging on the tail of a disgruntled cat as the two talk a bit during lunch.

“Fallin’ into Dean’s hospitality real quick, aren’t ya,” Benny drawls, eyeing Cas over. “Not taking advantage of my boy, hm?” His tone is somewhere between joking and all too serious, and Dean kind of wants to put his head down on the (not at all grimy, if Benny ever heard him say his diner was grimy he’d throw Dean into a river for real) tabletop.

“I wasn’t aware Dean belonged to you,” Cas retorts, tilting his chin up, jaw clenched as he takes in Benny’s clasped hands and large frame. He looks almost defiant, even with his too-small sweater and his fingers covered in ketchup.

Benny snorts and leans back in his seat. “Never claimed he does. Just trying to look out for my friend, is all. That’s the kind of guy I am.”

“Be nice to him, Benny, he’s had a rough few days,” Dean says, swiping an uneaten fry off of Cas’ plate. Cas is squinting at Benny with poorly disguised annoyance, and Dean really doesn’t want to deal with whatever weird pissing match the two of them have decided to start.

“I am being nice!” Benny insists, spreading his hands in suppliance, though there’s an amused glint in his eye. “Can’t two fellas just have a nice chat without someone accusing them of fighting?”

“We’re not fighting,” Cas agrees, though his squint says otherwise.

“Right,” Dean steals another fry from Cas’ plate. Cas had absolutely devoured the burger that Benny had put in front of him, as though he’d never tasted anything like it before, but he didn’t seem to be a huge fan of the fries. Which was sacrilege, if you asked Dean. Benny puts the perfect Cajun spice mix on them, just as he pulls them fresh from the fryer, making them tangy and spicy and incredible. If he could eat nothing but Benny’s fries, he probably would. Rolling his eyes, Cas pushes his mostly empty plate closer to Dean, allowing him easy access. 

On the other side of the diner, the door opens, letting a gaggle of teens in, all jostling one another as they come inside. Dean sees a couple flashes of sharp teeth, the long point of an ear, a few tufts of fur. Benny sighs and stands up from Dean and Cas’ table, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he does so. “Either they’re playing hooky or it’s parent-teacher conference day,” he says, “but I know hungry kids when I see ‘em. Good luck with your boy, Dean. See you around, brother.” He walks back into the kitchen just as one of the servers walks over to the group, notepad and pen in hand.

Cas sends one last hard look at Benny’s back, then turns back to Dean. “He’s one of your friends?” he asks, and Dean snorts at his disbelieving tone.

“Yeah, one of my best friends, actually. We even dated for a hot second a few years ago. It didn’t work out, but, well.” Dean shrugs, eating the last fry off of Cas’ plate. “We had fun, and we stayed friends.” He wipes his hands off on a napkin and reaches into his pocket for his wallet. “Okay, let’s head to the thrift store after this, get you some clothes that aren’t mine. Maybe a cheap phone, too. That way when I’m at work tomorrow, you can still get in touch with me if you need to, or go out and do… whatever.”

Cas’ eyes dim a little, catching Dean off guard. “You know I appreciate everything you’re doing to help me,” he says, “but I hope you don’t feel like I’m taking advantage of your kindness. Obviously I can’t repay you right now --”

Throwing a couple of bills on the table, Dean stands up and shakes his head, gesturing for Cas to stand too. “Dude, it’s no problem. We’ll figure it out, one step at a time, yeah?”

“If you insist.”

“I do.” Dean waves at Benny as they walk out and head to the Impala. The early spring sun is high in the sky at this point, and while it’s still pretty chilly out, being in the light is nice. Cas seems to think so too, as he lifts his face to the sky and takes a deep breath. He blinks a few times, like he’s just come up for air and is blinking water out of his eyes, and a strange look crosses his face.

“You okay, dude?” Dean asks.

“I --” Cas pauses, frowns. “I’m experiencing a rather pronounced sense of déjà vu at the moment.” He looks around the street like he expects it to become immediately familiar to him. “Maybe I’ve been here before?”

“It’s possible,” Dean says and unlocks the car door. “If you’re from around here, that’ll make things a lot easier. Guess you’ve never been to Benny’s diner though, since he didn’t recognize you,” he jokes.

Castiel doesn’t respond, still frowning. Dean lets him be: it’s been a hectic day already, with Dean dragging him all over town. Even with his rapid healing, this has probably been a little too much for Cas to deal with so soon after being injured. Guilt twists in the pit of Dean’s stomach at that thought. 

He’ll make sure they get through the rest of their errands today fast, and then maybe introduce Cas to the wonders of _Dr. Sexy_.

***

The first patient stumbles in at 9:23 in the morning, tears streaking down her face as she collides hard with a chair. Her pale skin is covered in painful red burns -- sunlight on unprotected vampire flesh. “Please, I can’t see, please, help,” she sobs, and Dean is already moving forward around the desk to help guide her.

“What happened?” he asks, taking her elbow and carefully getting her to sit down. Her eyes are sightless gray orbs staring at nothing. Other than the sun lesions marring her skin, there are no other wounds on her face or body.

“I don’t know,” she begins, still sobbing. Her hands clench in her lap.

And then another person enters, a man shouting that he can’t see. And another behind him, wailing hysterically. Another. And then another. Over the hospital PA system, Dean vaguely hears a call for backup go out as more and more nurses and doctors flood the room.

He gets the final number a few hours later, when things have calmed down enough that he can take a quick break for a cup of coffee. “Fifteen patients all came in with sudden blindness,” Dr. Jeffries, the on-call ophthalmologist, tells him. “ _Fifteen_ , and none of them with any signs of acute trauma other than, you know, having gone suddenly blind. And from what they all told me, they all went blind at approximately the same time this morning.”

“What the hell?” Dean stares at the doctor in shock, cup of coffee forgotten in his hand. “How is that even possible?”

“Hell if I know,” the doctor shrugs. “And from what I can tell, it’s permanent.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

Dr. Jeffries sighs. “Other than let law enforcement know? No, as far as I’m aware. Maybe they’ll be able to dig up some answers.”

Doubtful, but Dean knows it’s hospital procedure at this point. Fifteen people all struck blind at the same time, with no obvious connections between them? There must be something magical going on; that’s too much of a coincidence otherwise. He drains his sludgy coffee and tosses the paper cup away. Time to get back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean wakes up to the sound of pipes squeaking, and hears the shower turn on from inside his room. He turns over with a groan. Cas takes the longest baths and showers of anyone Dean has ever met, and he takes them at the strangest times. Like four in the goddamn morning, apparently. It’s like Cas has never lived with roommates before--which is possible, since he has no memory of it and also, apparently, _no memory of roommate etiquette._

The muffled sound of spray hitting tile is all Dean can hear for a moment, and then a deep, low singing joins it. It’s hard to make out over the hissing of the pipes and through the wall, but Dean swears Cas is singing Led Zeppelin. Maybe “Stairway to Heaven,” though he’s not sure. Cas’ soft baritone weaves in and out with the water, a kind of soothing white noise that makes Dean’s eyes feel heavy and sends his mind drifting back towards sleep. 

Maybe Cas’ strange shower habits aren’t so bad. 

***

_2:23pm >> hey can I ask u for a favor_

_2:25pm >> yeah of course!!!! whats up?_   
_2:25pm >> also i cant believe u havent invited me to ur new place yet >:(((_

Dean grins down at his phone as he texts Charlie. _2:26pm >> sorry, just been busy with moving and stuff. want to come over today? bring ur laptop and we’ll watch star trek_

_2:26pm >> hell yeah!!!! it’s a date_ she responds, and Dean quickly taps out his new address and sends it over. 

Just a month or so after he’d found Cas, Dean’s lease had ended, and rather than make the poor dude continue to sleep on his couch for the foreseeable future, Dean had signed a lease on a two-bedroom apartment instead. Moving had been exhausting, but it was finally done -- and Cas’ smile when he’d sat down on his own bed for the first time had been more than worth it. 

There’s a knock on the door that evening, and Dean lets Charlie in with a smile. “Nice digs, Winchester,” she says, setting down her backpack and a six-pack of beer (because she’s the best) before throwing her arms around him. “Now where’s this mysterious new roommate I haven’t gotten to meet yet?”

Dean chuckles and hugs her back. “That’s actually related to the favor I wanted to ask you about. But let me show you around first, and you can meet Cas.” 

“Oooh, Cas, huh? Gone to a nickname already?” she teases, but follows him further into the apartment. Cas is sitting on the couch, reading some book on magic theory that Sam had given him the last time they’d all had lunch together, but he looks up and smiles when Dean and Charlie walk in.

“Hello, you must be Charlie,” he says, carefully marking his page with a bookmark and standing up. “Dean told me you’d be visiting tonight. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Castiel.” He holds out a hand in greeting, which Charlie promptly ignores, bounding forward and wrapping him up in a hug.

“It’s so great to meet you!” she says, stepping back and clapping her hands together. “Dean has mentioned picking up a new roommate a couple of times, but he’s been super locked down about the details. So, first question: light side or dark side?”

Cas squints at her like she’s just asked him a complex riddle. “I… don’t understand the question.”

Charlie gapes back at him. “Dude. Star Wars? Luke versus Vader? Light versus dark? It’s a cultural touchstone! Have you never seen it?”

“I don’t know,” Cas responds. “According to Dean, I have one of the most severe cases of post-traumatic retrograde amnesia he’s ever seen, so maybe I have seen it but don’t remember. What is it?”

Charlie whirls on Dean, pointing her finger accusingly at him. “You’ve lived with this guy for how long now, and you never asked him about Star Wars?” she harangues. Dean holds up his hands in surrender, but Charlie keeps going, really building up steam. “How is this possible? Dean Winchester, I thought I knew you! I bet you haven’t even asked him about his favorite Star Trek series, have you? Oh my god, the only thing you’ve made him watch is Dr. Sexy, isn’t it!” 

Dean’s cheeks heat up because, as always, she’s caught him. Having a nerdy best friend is both a blessing and a curse. “I wanted to start him on the essentials,” he explains, though it’s a weak excuse and they both know it. Charlie rolls her eyes but turns back to Castiel. 

“You are so lucky I’m here, Castiel. I have a feeling you’re more of a Next Generation guy, but we’ll start you off old school with some TOS. Ooh, I bet you’ll love DS9, too,” she says, “but we’ll see what we can get through tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you and your first forays into nerdom. Or maybe not your first forays, but the first ones you can remember, I guess. But first I have to help the traitor here with some boring favor.” 

Now it’s Dean’s turn to roll his eyes, but he can’t stop the helpless grin that spreads across his face as he watches Cas’ expression shift from pleasantly curious to some mix of surprise and shock as Charlie talks at him at her standard speed of a mile a minute. “I wouldn’t call the favor boring,” Dean teases, knowing that Charlie is much more likely to say yes if he can frame it as an interesting challenge, “just something that I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can handle it.”

Dean’s life is filled with redheads who are susceptible to flattery.

It works. Charlie’s eyes glitter at the prospect of a challenge. “Alright, what’ve you got, Winchester?” she asks, grabbing her backpack and sliding her laptop out like she’s ready to wade into battle. 

“Him.” Gesturing towards Cas, Dean prepares his request. “As Cas just mentioned, he’s got some pretty severe post-traumatic retrograde amnesia. It’s nearly total memory loss. When I found him, he only remembered his first name, and he didn’t have any ID on him or anything. I asked Sam and Rowena for help, but they couldn’t do anything either. And I know that you need a bit more than _just_ a first name to go off of for background searches,” he raises a hand, stymieing Charlie’s protests, “but that’s not what I wanted to ask a favor for.”

“Then what _do_ you want?” Charlie’s brows are twisted, and she drums her fingers lightly on the top of her laptop.

“To get Cas into the system somehow. Get him an ID and whatever else he needs so that he doesn’t have to spend the rest of his life holed up with me if he doesn’t want to do that.” He very carefully ignores the way his heart stutters at that thought. “Doesn’t have to be anything elaborate, and I’m not talking pulling off a major heist to fill Cas’ bank account or whatever. Just… enough to let him live, you know?”

“Dean has been very generous towards me over the past few weeks,” Cas adds, voice low. “I’d like to be able to pull my weight, as it were, and maybe get a job. Something where I can do more than just sit in the apartment all day, at least.”

God, that makes Dean wince, because Cas has been cooped up for weeks on end while Dean has gone to work. Sure, they’d gone through nearly every season of Dr. Sexy that Dean owns on DVD, and had plenty of hangouts with Sam, and sometimes Cas even let Dean take him back to Benny’s diner, where the two would make thinly-veiled threats towards one another while Dean wolfed down hashbrowns and pie. Hell, Dean had even signed up for a library card and then given it to Cas, who had taken to spending hours on end browsing books and reading them at a pace that made Dean dizzy, but it was clear he was getting restless for more. Dean can’t blame him, either, especially as they’ve moved into the summer months and the weather is getting nicer and nicer outside. Cas is a fiercely independent person, and it must really sting to have to rely on Dean for so much. 

And Dean sure as hell doesn’t mind taking care of Cas -- he wouldn’t be a nurse if he didn’t like taking care of people -- but he also isn’t stupid. He generally knows when to step back and give someone the space they need to grow. 

Taking care of Sam definitely taught him that, if nothing else did. 

An excited smile fills Charlie’s face, but she feigns boredom. “Oh, is that it? You just want me to construct a fake identity from nothing? That’s practically child’s play.” She can’t hold the facade for long, though, and she breaks with a gleeful laugh. “I can start whipping something up this evening and turn you into a real boy by the end of the week, probably. How does that sound?”

Relief spreads across Cas’ face like a sunrise, highlighting the deep blue of his eyes. “That sounds wonderful, thank you so much, Charlie. What can I do to help?”

“Let’s get some drinks, set up Star Trek, and then I’ll start my magic, sound good?” Charlie says, opening her laptop and sitting down on the couch. “Handmaiden, fetch us some beverages,” she directs to Dean.

“Of course, my queen,” Dean grins back in response. “Anything for the best technomancer in the kingdom.”

“Damn straight.”

As Dean heads into the kitchen to grab some beers, he hears Cas ask, “Oh, are you magical as well? Or nonhuman?” 

Charlie’s faint laugh follows him as he opens the fridge with a snort. “Nah, I’m a regular degular human just like you and Dean. He calls me a technomancer because he’s a nerd who’s read one too many bad sci-fi books.”

“Hey now,” Dean protests, walking back into the living room and passing out beers, “you’ve read more bad sci-fi books than I have, Charles. Besides, you love being called a technomancer.”

“A queen accepts her titles with grace and benevolence,” Charlie sniffs. She takes a sip of her beer and sets it on the coffee table, then starts to type. “Okay, buckaroos, let’s get this show on the road, yeah?”

***

About a week later, Dean walks into the living room where Cas is sitting and reading another book, flourishing a white, rectangular envelope. “Guess what just came from Charlie!” he crows, waving it in the air. 

Cas is at his side in a flash, book forgotten on the couch. Dean nearly jumps out of his skin at how quickly and silently the dude moves -- no matter how long they’ve lived together, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to his roommate having the reflexes of a cat. 

“She’s finished?” he asks, gaze focused on Dean’s hands. “That was fast.”

“That’s why she’s the best at what she does.” Dean hands him the envelope. “Okay, you do the honors.”

Like he’s defusing a bomb, Cas tears open the flap of the envelope. Inside are two sheets of paper: a short note written in Charlie’s scrawl, and an official-looking letter with a card with Cas’ photo attached to the bottom. Dean reads over Cas’ shoulder as he skims down the handwritten note.

_Cas,_

_Here you go! This is an official license from the DMV, which should serve as pretty much everything you need, even driving a car. Although I don’t know if a dude with amnesia should be on the road. Whoops._

_Hope you don’t mind that I chose a last name for you. I went with Novak; it kind of means ‘new man’ in several Slavic languages, and it’s a somewhat common last name in the midwest. I figured it would be okay._

_Looking forward to our next Star Trek night! And tell Dean to show you the Lord of the Rings -- otherwise, that’s our next project, and I’d much rather introduce you to Firefly. Let me know if you need anything else!_

_Peace out, bitches!_

Cas peels the ID card from the official paperwork it’s attached to, turning it over in his hands once or twice like he can’t quite believe it’s his. He stares down at the photo of himself in silence. His eyes are intense, even in the postage stamp-sized photo that Dean had taken and sent to Charlie.

“Castiel Novak, huh?” Dean muses to break the silence. “Not bad. I think it works for you.”

“Yes,” Cas says, and a smile tugs at the ends of his lips. “I think it does, too.”

*** 

It takes a few weeks for Cas to land an interview, much less a job after Charlie sends the rest of his paperwork over, but eventually he finds a part-time gig at a nearby gas station. The pay is kind of shit, but hey, for all Dean knows this is Cas’ first job, and considering he doesn’t have an actual resume or CV of any kind, the Gas-n-Sip is a good place to get his feet wet. And Cas seems intrigued by the idea of working there; he’d described the slushie machine in frighteningly accurate detail when Dean had asked him how the interview had gone.

By some small miracle, Dean has an early morning shift on the same day as Cas’ first day of work, so he’s able to cram a somewhat healthy breakfast in front of the poor dude, who is clearly way more nervous and excited than anyone who has worked at a gas station has ever been. Dean had managed to convince him _not_ to wear the nice button down shirt he’d gotten a few weeks earlier, but Cas still insisted on wearing the same slacks that he’d worn to his interview. He wanted to look professional, he’d claimed.

Dean gives it about halfway through his first shift before Cas wants to change into jeans.

Instead of eating, Cas pushes scrambled eggs around his plate with his fork, expression rapidly shifting between nausea and excitement. Watching him from the kitchen, Dean sighs and sets down his (first) mug of coffee with a clink against the countertop. “Dude, you’re so nervous, you’re about to make _me_ yartz. You gotta relax. It’s going to be fine.” He pauses, considering. “Well, it’s probably going to be fine. I wouldn’t worry until you have to do a night shift, that’s when shit gets wild.”

“What do you mean?” Cas carefully forks a small bite of eggs into his mouth, then grabs the salt and liberally sprinkles it on the rest of his food. 

Dean sighs and picks up his coffee again, taking a large swig. “Day shifts are pretty easy, for any job,” he explains. “Night shifts are what you have to watch out for. No matter what job you work, night shifts are either boring as hell, or all hell breaks loose. It just depends on the luck of the draw.” 

“And you know this from experience.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, the hospital isn’t exactly the best comparison to make, because work there can be a little more seasonal than you realize. People go nuts during the summer, when the weather is nice and you can spend more time outside. Winter night shifts can be pretty boring, but summertime is a challenge.” Dean blows out a breath, shaking his head absently. “The stories I could tell, honestly. Let me know when you work your first night shift, I’ll try to stop by during it and help keep you awake.”

Ah, shit. That came out way worse than he meant it. The back of his neck heats up, but Cas is giving him a grateful look and nodding.

“Thank you, Dean. I should probably head out now, my manager mentioned some training tapes that I need to begin reviewing immediately.” Cas sets down his fork and stands, adjusting the collar of his shirt awkwardly. Dean’s fingers itch to smooth it back down, and he gives in to the impulse, crossing the room to adjust the rumpled cloth. The tips of his fingers accidentally brush against the line of Cas’ throat for a moment, still a little stubbly even after he shaved that morning, and Dean has to fight back the shudder that tries to race up his spine. 

He pats Cas’ shoulder quickly and steps back, hoping that his face isn’t turning red. “You good to go?” he chokes out, and his voice only sounds a little strangled to his own ears at least.

Cas gives him a small smile and nods. “Yes. See you later, Dean.” 

Watching him walk out the door is a surreal experience, Dean has to admit. He feels, weirdly, a strange sense of pride, like he had the first time he’d watched Sam go off to school by himself. 

“What the fuck is wrong with me,” he mutters, and packs himself off to work. He needs to get his head on straight for the day -- things have been picking up over the past few weeks, and there’s a lady in the long-term thoracic care unit who keeps demanding that Dean, and only Dean, bring her lime jello every two hours when he’s on shift. 

***

Three weeks later, Dean surreptitiously checks his watch, drumming the fingers of his other hand against the tabletop. Sitting across from him, Cas very pointedly pretends not to notice, taking a drink from his water glass instead. Irritated, Dean switches to drumming his fingers against his own water glass, feeling the cool condensation slide down the outside. His leg starts jiggling under the table.

“Maybe there’s traffic,” Cas offers, breaking the silence between them.

“He can walk here,” Dean growls, but he slumps over, forcibly making himself stop fidgeting. “Man, I know he can get wrapped up in his work sometimes, but he’s never been this late before. Especially not when it’s been like two months since we’ve hung out.”

“It’s only been twenty minutes.”

“He could’ve at least texted if he was going to be this late.” Dean mutters this into the laminated menu for the Burrito Barn still sitting in front of him. He knows what he wants--it’s the same thing he gets every time he and Sam have lunch at this joint, but he likes to pretend to peruse the menu anyway. They get lunch here once a month, when Dean’s schedule is free, and this time Dean had invited Cas along since he didn’t have a shift today either. 

The door to the restaurant opens with a jingle, and Sam comes hurrying inside, sliding into the booth next to Cas. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “I just got super caught up in what I was doing and completely lost track of time. Have you guys ordered yet?”

“Nah, we were waiting for you,” Dean says, eyeing his brother over. It’s the height of summer, but Sam is pale and his face looks creased, like he hasn’t slept properly in the last few weeks. His movements are slower than normal when he picks up his menu and looks it over, but his red-rimmed eyes seem strangely bright. Dean knew he’d been working hard on a new project with Rowena, but he hadn’t realized _how_ hard. Even Sam’s hair looks lank and unwashed, which is completely out of the norm for him.

“How’s your new job going?” Sam asks Cas, and Dean swears Sam’s slurring his words just a bit. “Dean texted me that you’d picked something up.”

“It’s been… interesting,” Cas offers, just as their waiter, Ralph, stops at their table to take their orders. Dean gets a loaded burrito (as always); Sam gets the three taco platter (also as always); Cas frowns at his menu for one last moment and orders the shrimp tacos. 

“I like when I get the chance to talk with new people,” Cas continues after Ralph walks away. “And there are a few regulars I am getting to know. Also, my boss, Nora, has a baby that she’s shown me pictures of.”

Their waiter stops by with another glass of water for Sam and sets a basket of tortilla chips on the table.

“You’re so getting tagged for babysitting duty someday,” Dean snorts after he leaves. Cas had told him about Nora and her kid, and how she’d very pointedly mentioned that she and her husband don’t get out a lot because they couldn’t find anyone to watch her. “How about you, Samwitch? You seem pretty busy these days. Haven’t seen or heard from you very much.”

Sam ducks his head but his eyes glitter in excitement. “Yeah, I know, sorry about that. It’s just… I’ve told you that there’s this big project going on, Rowena and I have been really focused on it. It’s really interesting stuff, honestly, and I wish I could tell you more, except we’re under a pretty tight NDA about it, at least until we’re done researching.”

“Who’s got you hopping?” Dean asks, picking up a chip and crunching down. Salt and lime explode across his tongue, and he grabs another, his stomach very pleased at finally getting food after the unexpected delay. 

“Sorry, NDA,” Sam shrugs apologetically. “But I will say I’ve never seen Rowena so intense before. I’m pretty sure she’s been sleeping in her office -- and _not_ in that way.” He glowers at Dean, who leans back in his seat with a grin. 

“Can you tell us anything about what you’re researching, at least?” Cas asks, tentatively trying a chip. He seems surprised by the flavor, and pulls the basket closer to himself, pulling out the chips with the largest salt flakes visible. “It’s interesting, learning what you and Dean do. It seems so different on the surface, but underneath it’s very similar -- you’re both helping people, just in your own ways.”

“Uh,” Dean says. Sam seems to be in a similar position, looking at Castiel with his mouth slightly open in surprise. But he recovers, shaking his head like a dog throwing off water.

“Well, I guess as long as I don’t mention anything specific to the actual project itself…” he muses. “It’s more the application of the research that’s under an NDA at the moment, not the research itself.” 

Ralph chooses that moment to set their food in front of the three of them, and Dean tucks into his burrito in all its cheesy glory. Cas also appears taken with his shrimp tacos, and Sam takes a bite of rice before putting his fork down.

“Okay, so part of what I’ve been researching lately has been older mythologies, folk tales, and cultural legends from around the world. Things like rapid healing outside of witchlines, and certain types of curses, and selkies and other mythological creatures. It’s been really interesting to dig into these older ideas and concepts and look at how they’re, you know, culturally and spiritually important to the people and places they developed from, and also how they may not be as mythological as we think they are,” he says, gathering steam. “There’s some fascinating work that’s been done on selkie lore versus mermaid culture and sightings from similar time periods among primarily Celtic communities. And after hearing firsthand from you guys about Cas’ rapid healing, Rowena and I are going through all of this stuff with a really fine-toothed comb.”

“So you’re being sent on a wild goose chase?” Dean asks, raising his brows significantly at Sam. “At least you’re getting paid, I guess.” The taste of cheese is beginning to sour in his mouth. The last time Sam became this fixated on something… well, he doesn’t really want to think about that right now. Not if he doesn’t have to.

Sam gives him Bitchface Number Twenty-seven (“You’re being an obtuse jerk, Dean”). “It’s not a wild goose chase, not to me at least. These stories and legends, they’ve gotta come from some place that’s factual. Every story has its basis in truth somehow. We’re searching for new connections and information that these myths might tell us that can aid us with the project we’re working on.”

“But they debunked the selkie shit centuries ago, when the merfolk sent a coalition to meet with the Greeks. It was all just sailors seeing manatees and mermaids and thinking they were seal-people shedding their skin or whatever.”

“That’s the point! Humans thought merfolk were just a legend for a long time, but when the First Meeting happened, it was proof that the stories and myths were much more factual than expected, and it resulted in huge gains for archaeology, anthropology, historical studies, and magic theory!” Sam has warmed up to his argument now, and his food remains untouched on his plate. “There’s still so much we don’t know, and part of this research could lead to unlocking so much more!”

A vague sense of nausea wells up in Dean’s stomach as he watches his brother gesticulate excitedly across the table from him. The whole scene is a little too familiar for comfort -- the pale skin, dark circles under too-bright eyes, an intense kind of mania layered over poorly hidden exhaustion, the single-minded focus to the exclusion of all else. Not eating, clearly not sleeping. 

It’s been a few years, and there’s no Ruby this time, but… 

“Hey, if you’re into this kind of stuff, that’s great,” he tries to deflect, keeping his tone light and easy. “But make sure you’re taking care of yourself, you know? You’re a nerd, not a superhuman,” he jokes.

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m fine,” he insists, his own voice flat. “I’m working hard, but it’s not like I’m killing myself on this project or anything.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Dean mutters, shoveling another bite of burrito into his mouth. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, I know how you get about stuff like this.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sam snaps.

Dean takes just a moment to feel guilty for what he’s about to say. “I’m just saying, you’ve been known to… make some bad decisions when you get wrapped up in something that takes all your attention.” He sets his jaw, looking back up at Sam, who looks… yeah. Who looks shocked. Just like he thought.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Dean.” Sam’s pale face is starting to flush, and Dean can see Cas looking between the two of them with an expression somewhere between confusion and apprehension. Guilt washes more intensely over Dean, along with a not insubstantial dose of anger. He’d hoped it was all over. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. 

“If there’s something you need to tell me, just tell me,” he says, trying to rein in his emotions, to remember what the counselor had told him at the clinic when he’d picked Sam up. _Remain calm. Don’t lash out. Addiction is a disease --_

“What the hell are you even talking about! There’s nothing to tell!” Sam hisses, and his eyes dart to Castiel sitting next to him. “Even if there was, what makes you think _this_ is the best time or place to talk about it?”

Dean sets his jaw mulishly. “What, I’m not allowed to be worried about you?”

“Oh my god! How many times do I have to say I’m fine? I don’t rag on you when you work more shifts than you’re supposed to because someone called out, do I? I’m just working a lot on stuff that you don’t understand! I know you don’t have magic, but that doesn’t mean what I do isn’t valuable, too.” He stands up abruptly, banging the edge of the table with his legs. The dishes in front of them jump; a little bit of Sam’s mostly uneaten rice spills onto the polished wooden surface. Dean almost doesn’t notice that Sam has pulled out his wallet because he’s making sure his water doesn’t spill all over the place.

“What are you doing?” he frowns. 

Sam puts a few dollars on the table. “I’m going back to work. I’ll talk to you later, maybe.” He starts to leave.

“Do you want the rest of your food to-go?” Cas asks, the first words he’s spoken since the argument started. 

Sam just shakes his head without turning back. “No, I’m not hungry. You can have it if you want.” The door to the restaurant jingles faintly as it shuts behind him.

Dean stares at the wood grain on the surface of the table, an icy kind of heat prickling up his jaw. Yeah, magic and shit ain’t exactly his forte. It’s something he doesn’t try to dwell on too much, leaves that in Sam’s more capable hands instead. So what if he’s kind of the odd duck in his family, not having a strong affinity for magic; he’s done his best to do good with the tools he does have. He knows he could do more if he had Sam’s aptitude for magic, but, well. Them’s the breaks. 

There’s a part of him that knows Sam probably didn’t mean it, but it’s a quiet part, buried underneath worry and hurt and a few more complicated emotions that Dean really doesn’t have the energy to deal with right now. He and Sam have always known how to push each other’s buttons, and Dean _knows_ that he should take Sam at his word. But it’s hard to shake the memory of Sam’s voice the first time he’d whispered, “Dean, I think I messed up.” Hard to ignore the obvious parallels between Sam’s pale, work-worn face sitting across from him at the table just now to those sunken eyes and thin frame from five years ago. Dean’s hands curl in his lap, his fingernails biting into his palms.

“Dean? Are you okay?” he hears Cas ask, and he blinks, looking up. Cas is looking at him with clear concern on his face, his mouth slanted into a worried frown. 

With a concerted effort, Dean unclenches his hands, giving Cas a smile that most likely looks more like a grimace. “Yeah, I’m good, sorry about all of that. Just worried about Sam. He sometimes bites off more than he can chew, and it’s hurt him in the past.”

“I’m sure he’ll ask for help if he needs it.”

“Hm. Yeah, maybe.” Dean sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Alright, let’s get out of here. Do something actually fun with our day off.” He’ll text Sam later. Maybe tomorrow. Give them both some time to cool off. He tries to tamp down on the sour feeling of worry spreading across the pit of his stomach, with mixed success.

“What did you have in mind?” Cas asks, cocking his head to one side, curious. Dean gives him a real, if still slightly strained, smile this time.

“You’ll see. I have a feeling you’ll like it a lot.”

***

Dean had expected it, but he still grins at the way Cas’ eyes widen with interest as they pull up to a small lake about a 40 minute drive outside of town. It’s a perfect day for swimming and general lakeside activities -- the sun glints off the dark, placid surface of the water as perfectly white, fluffy clouds drift by, no hint of an afternoon summer storm hidden in their depths. The small strip of sandy shoreline isn’t too crowded, thanks to the fact that it’s a weekday and most people are at work. There are a few groups and families dotting the picnic tables and grills that ring the lakeside, and beyond the roped off swimming area, a dad and his two daughters canoe slowly past, the girls shrieking in delight. 

“It ain’t summertime without a trip to the lake,” Dean declares, parking the Impala. “What do you think about a cookout for dinner? I packed stuff to make hamburgers. And beer.”

“Is it really that smart to drink beer and go swimming?” Cas asks, his eyes glued to the water. 

Dean snorts. “I’m not much of a swimmer, but I’m damn good at floating.” He points to a pile of black inner tubes laying on a pallet next to a small park building. “And for a dollar, I can float for as long as I want.”

They carry the cooler of supplies Dean had packed down to an open table shaded by a large tree. The air is stiflingly hot, and Dean pulls out a beer, cracking it open with relish. Condensation begins to slide down the outside of the can almost immediately in the humidity. He offers one to Cas, who shakes his head and slips into the changing rooms, mentioning something about the water looking more refreshing than alcohol. 

When he comes back out, Dean has about thirty seconds of functionality to consider the fact that he has royally fucked up, and then his brain just completely shuts down, because Cas is shirtless and in swim trunks, and holy shit did Dean miscalculate. Cas’ legs are muscular and long, and somehow he already seems tan, even though Dean _knows_ he hasn’t been spending a ton of time outside. And yeah, okay, Dean might’ve seen everything up close and personal the first time he’d ever met Cas, but he’d been pretty focused on saving the dude’s life rather than trying to memorize the curve of his collarbone or the cut of his hip. This is… this is torture, is what it is. And Dean can only blame himself. 

Cas places his folded up clothing on the table next to Dean. “Will you be joining me soon?”

“Uh,” Dean stutters, and yup, that’s definitely his brain dribbling out of his ears, “Y-yeah, just a sec.”

“Great,” Cas gives him a smile, then heads towards the shoreline. Dean watches him walk right into the water, barely even slowing down to test the temperature before he’s up to his calves, then waist, then chest. He watches as Cas lurches forward and then --

Cas dives under the water. Dean’s too far away to see all the details, but he follows the rippling line across the surface of the lake as Cas moves. He waits for Cas to come back up.

And waits, and waits. The rippling line is no longer visible.

The blood freezes in Dean’s veins, and he bolts up from the table, his half-finished beer forgotten. How could he have been so stupid? He never even thought to ask if Cas knew how to swim, if it was something Cas had maybe forgotten. Holy shit, he was so fucking irresponsible, he should have _gone with Cas_ to the water instead of sitting down like a lazy piece of shit, made sure that Cas was comfortable and safe instead of just letting him, apparently, go drown himself. 

He hears himself shouting, but it’s almost muffled in his own ears, unable to get through the fog of panic wrapped around his mind. His heart is pounding as he runs to the shoreline, kicks off his shoes to begin wading into the still lake. Water soaks his jeans as he splashes forward, and it should probably be cool and refreshing, but instead just feels like ice stabbing into his legs. People are looking at him, some of them coming over with concern on their faces, but Dean can’t pay attention to them, only has eyes for the spot where Cas went down. “Cas!” he shouts. “Cas!”

“What?”

Dean whips around in the water and loses his footing, the lake closing over his head with a cold slap. It’s disorienting, and he scrambles back up towards the surface, trying not to snort water up his nose. When he comes back up with a gasp -- now thoroughly and completely soaked -- and blinks the water out of his eyes, Cas is standing behind him with a confused look on his face, whole and alive and completely undrowned, the sky incredibly blue and clear above him. “Why did you come in the lake fully clothed?” he asks, and Dean considers the merits of drowning _himself_.

Instead, he leans down, scoops his hands through the water, and splashes a wave at Cas, who splutters as it hits his face. “What was that for?” he exclaims.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Dean growls, splashing Cas again, weaker this time. “I thought you’d forgotten how to swim and drowned.”

Cas glances very significantly down at the water, which only reaches up to his waist. Dean splashes him again. Asshole.

There are still people watching them from the shore, and Dean is increasingly aware of how uncomfortable he is in his soaked clothes. “Well, I’m gonna go… change,” he mutters, wading forward. “And have another beer.” Maybe another two beers. He needs it.

A hand on his shoulder stops him. “I’m sorry if I worried you,” Cas says, “but I think I’m okay. Being in the water is --” he pauses, clearly searching for the right words. “It’s amazing,” he finishes. “It feels very peaceful here.”

There’s a trickle of water slowly traveling from the edge of Cas’ temple down the side of his cheek, and Dean can’t tear his eyes away from it. “Glad you’re havin’ a good time, buddy,” he says weakly, willing his heart to stop pounding so hard in his chest. Everything’s fine. Cas is safe. All Dean has to do is go change into his actual trunks, drink beer, and flip a few burgers later. He’s _good_. He pats Cas’ chest with one hand, because he’s an idiot, and heads back to their table.

A few hours later, he’s trying to decide whether or not to crack open another beer. The sun is just starting to sink towards the horizon, the shadows growing longer and longer between the trees as they stretch across the grass and dirt. Most people have left at this point, though there’s a group of campers who are beginning to put up a couple of tents a good distance away. Some of them seem to be trying to start a fire in the park’s fire pit, and Dean would like to leave before they break out the guitars and start singing “Wonderwall,” thank you very much.

He and Cas had devoured the burgers that Dean grilled, and then Cas had gone back into the lake. He was enamored with swimming, apparently. Seemed to glean hours of amusement from moving himself through the water, swift and accurate like an arrow. Maybe he’d been an avid swimmer before he lost his memory. Dean had spent a while in the lake as well, part of it floating on an inner tube and just relaxing, but Cas hadn’t gotten out when Dean had. 

As Dean considers calling Cas to get out so they can head back home, he hears an inordinate amount of splashing from the shoreline, and then Cas is practically crawling up the small beach with his head in his hands. Even from where Dean is sitting, he can tell Cas is in an agonizing amount of pain, and he runs down to his side, cursing this stupid fucking lake trip the entire way.

“Holy shit, what happened? Are you okay?” he asks, using his shoulder to help Cas stand. “Did you hit your head?” He quickly looks Cas over for any visible bruises or wounds, but doesn’t see anything.

Cas grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m -- I’m not sure what happened,” he says, breathing labored. “I was just… just swimming, and I had my eyes open underwater, looking at a fish, and suddenly this massive headache came out of nowhere.”

Dean relaxes slightly, because yeah, migraines are no fun, but this is way easier to deal with than a sudden aneurysm or Cas hitting his head on a rock or something. “You may be dehydrated, since you’ve been swimming for hours,” he points out and begins guiding Cas back to their table. “We should probably head out anyway, it’s not really safe to swim anymore. And I don’t want to be here when Camp Nowhere over there starts singing Kumbaya.” He nods to the group around the fire pit, and Cas chokes out a pained laugh.

“You know I don’t understand that reference,” he says, but the lines on his forehead are already starting to smooth out a bit, so Dean takes the win where he can.

They pack up quickly, with Dean putting most of their stuff away and bundling Cas into a dry towel instead of letting him help much. Cas complains that he’s not an invalid, but Dean ignores him, shoving some of the emergency Excedrin he keeps on hand in Cas’ face. “Sam would get these massive headaches sometimes after studying for too long when he was in school,” he explains, “and I just got into the habit of keeping this stuff around. Coming in handy, huh?” He winks at Cas, grinning as he shoves the now-empty cooler back into the Impala.

The drive back is quiet as Cas keeps his eyes closed, only the sound of the road under Baby’s tires filling the car. At one point, Cas mutters, “I wish I could have looked at that fish for longer,” and then falls silent again. Dean glances at him, not sure if he should respond.

Overhead, the moon slowly rises in the deepening twilight.


	4. Chapter 4

“So how are things with Jason Bourne going?” Charlie asks, her tone a little too sly for Dean’s taste. He squints at her from the corner of his eye, but she continues, undeterred, “Or is it more of a _Fifty First Dates_ kind of deal? A new romance every day?”

“One, he has retrograde amnesia, not anterograde, of the post-traumatic kind. Two, it’s not like that,” Dean replies, careful to keep his voice low as he takes a couple of beers out of the fridge. There’s a bag of popcorn just beginning to pop wildly in the microwave, and Cas is in the living room, in charge of starting up Netflix so they can pick something to watch.

Charlie doesn’t take the hint and continues her line of questioning as she pours the popcorn into a big bowl. The smell of fake butter permeates the room. “So what way is it like?”

Dean sighs and opens the beers, handing one to her. “We’re friends, Charlie. And roommates. I’m not gonna pressure a dude who doesn’t know who he is or where he comes from to hook up or date me or anything.”

“But it’s been _months_ ,” she points out. “You’re obviously interested in him. And you guys are obviously good for each other. Why don’t you want to pursue anything!”

“Who said I don’t want to?” Dean mutters, grabbing another bowl and dumping some packaged cookies into it. Gotta have salty and sweet for movie night. He can practically hear Charlie’s expression as it crosses her face.

“Oh,” she says, and goddammit. “Oh, Dean, I’m sorry.”

He heaves another sigh, but turns into the hug she’s offering. Her head tucks into his chest, and Dean relaxes minutely. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again, “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dean promises. “And it’s not as bad as you probably think. I just… I want to, Charlie, I do. But there’s a voice in my head that stops me, every time. I keep thinking, ‘What if he’s married and doesn’t remember it,’ you know? He could have a partner or a spouse out there somewhere who is worried sick about him, and I’d be keeping them apart.”

Charlie squeezes him lightly. “Fair enough. But don’t make yourself miserable over what ifs, okay?”

“No promises,” Dean laughs. “Okay, help me carry this.” He pushes the bowl of popcorn into her hands, along with a few more unopened beers.

She juggles everything unsteadily for a moment, then rights it all as they walk back to Cas, who is scrolling through the movie suggestions with a look of intense concentration on his face.

“Find anything good?” Dean asks, plunking an open beer down on a coaster on the coffee table in front of Cas. The bowl of cookies gets set down next to it, and Cas automatically leans forward to snag one.

“I was just looking through to see if anything jogged a latent memory,” Cas says, handing the remote to Dean with a short sigh. “I know it’s increasingly unlikely for me to regain any memories as time goes on, but, well.” He shrugs, dismissive. “You never know. At this point, I’m not sure it would even matter.”

“What do you mean?” Charlie asks, sitting at the other end of the couch, forcing Dean to sit between them. She wiggles her eyebrows at Dean significantly, out of Cas’ eyesight. Dean rolls his eyes but sits down. The old couch dips underneath him -- he really needs to think about replacing it -- and both Cas and Charlie are shifted closer to him, Cas’ shoulder nearly touching his own.

“Well, Dean found me injured in an alleyway. Who knows what kind of person I may be to have ended up in that situation.”

“Hey, for all we know, you were mugged,” Dean points out. “Besides, who you may or may not have been isn’t really the point, is it? It’s who you are now that matters. And I think you’re a cool dude, even if you have questionable Star Trek opinions.”

“I’ve told you before, _The Undiscovered Country_ has an incredible underlying philosophical exploration to it that gets to the heart of what makes Star Trek so powerful --”

“What are you talking about! _Wrath of Khan_ is totally the best! I cry every time I watch it!” Charlie objects, and honestly, Dean should have seen this coming.

He heads them off at the pass, before the well-trod argument can be trod once again. “ _Anyway_ , Cas, whether or not you get your memories back, I promise I’ll still be your friend. Unless you’re a serial killer, I guess.”

“What if I am a serial killer?”

“Do you feel like a serial killer?” Dean shoots back.

Cas frowns. “No, I guess not. But how would I know what being a serial killer feels like?”

“I dunno, dude, I’m not a serial killer.”

“Wow, what a fascinating discussion,” Charlie deadpans. “Give me the remote, I get to pick the movie tonight since you two are wasting time.”

She settles on some documentary about technology and hacking that manages to be schlocky and captivating at the same time, at least to Dean. Charlie spends a lot of the movie critiquing the “hackers” who get interviewed and loudly proclaiming that they have no idea what they’re talking about. The popcorn disappears quickly in the darkened room.

By the end of the film, it’s clear that Cas has fallen asleep, head back against the couch and eyes shut. Something in Dean’s chest tightens -- Cas has been working longer hours recently, and has been talking excitedly about Nora possibly promoting him to a manager position. He knows the guy is tired.

Charlie leans around to take a look at Cas’ sleeping form. “Aw, what a little angel,” she whispers with a teasing smile, and Dean chuckles.

“Won’t be an angel when he wakes up with a major crick in his neck,” he says.

They clean up quietly, and Charlie gives him another tight hug before she heads out. “See you soon, stranger. And think about what I said, okay?”

Dean squeezes her back gently. “Have a good night, red. I’ll talk to you later.”

After she leaves, Dean putters around as silently as he can for a few more minutes, strangely reluctant to wake Cas’ sleeping form. He looks so relaxed, his face free of any of the unconscious lines of stress he carries during the day. It’s been a few weeks since his last migraine, and sometimes Dean can hear him tossing and turning restlessly at night. In the grand scheme of things, it’s only been a few months since they met, but Dean can tell that Cas chafes against feeling helpless; he prefers to act, to try to change things for the better, but he can’t because he has no memory of himself. Dean’s heart aches, and he lets himself, just for one moment, run his fingers through Cas’ unruly hair in a wordless attempt at cowardly affection.

Underneath their lids, Cas’ eyes flicker, and Dean draws his hand back quickly as Cas wakes up, blinking slowly. “Dean?” he asks, voice sleep-rough and gravelly, and fuck, his eyes are deliciously sleepy and hooded. “Did I fall asleep? I’m sorry.”

His mouth suddenly and unexpectedly dry, Dean licks his lips and nods. “No worries, buddy. But you’re gonna hate yourself in the morning if you keep sleeping in that position. Go to bed -- movie’s over anyway.”

“Oh,” Cas says, and pushes himself up on the couch, looking around with a small frown. “Did Charlie leave without saying goodbye?”

“She didn’t want to disturb you, sorry,” Dean apologizes. Cas nods and stands all the way up, stretching his back until an audible crack flashes through the room. “Shit, Cas, you gotta start stretching more, dude,” he says with a wince.

“You’re probably right, and I will probably ignore you,” Cas says, and Dean laughs, because yeah, that’s exactly what will happen. Cas covers his mouth with a hand as he yawns. “Good night, Dean,” he mumbles, passing Dean with a friendly, lingering pat on his shoulder.

“Yeah, night,” Dean says, shuffling towards his own room. He goes through the motions of brushing his teeth, putting on his pjs, washing his face, then lays down in his bed, staring up at the dark void of the ceiling. He can hear Cas through the wall, going through all the same paces of his bedtime routine, can hear the way the covers rustle as he climbs into his own bed. For a moment, Dean pretends that he can hear Cas’ soft, deep breathing through the wall as well. In and out. Warm and slow.

He closes his eyes and lets himself pretend that Cas is laying in bed and breathing next to him, that Cas’ arm is slung across Dean’s waist in a comfortable, intimate embrace. That Cas is tucked up against him and Dean can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes in and out.

The imagined rhythm lulls Dean to a dreamless sleep.

***

The height of summer begins to drift into something slightly mellower as the days shorten, deepening the length of the shadows across streets and buildings. The promise of autumn fills the air; Dean notes with a restrained amount of delight that the coffee shops in the city are breaking out the salted caramel again. He makes the mistake of trying to introduce Cas to the best and brightest of all seasonal flavors, only for Cas to fall head over heels for pumpkin spice instead.

“How do you even like that stuff,” Dean complains, watching Cas sip contentedly on a large latte. “It’s just fake sugary crap!”

“Your own beverage is flavored with fake sugary crap,” Cas points out.

“Yeah, but it’s got, you know… umami, or whatever. Sweet and salty.”

“That’s not what umami means. You’re talking about flavor layering. You enjoy your beverage because of the juxtaposing flavor profile it presents. I’m enjoying my beverage for the sweet and somewhat spicy flavor profile it provides. We all have different tastes, quite literally.”

Dean stares hard across the table. “Have you been reading my old nutrition textbook or something?”

“Yes.” Cas drains the last of his latte and sets down his cup. “I’ve been reading many of your old textbooks. The breadth and depth of knowledge you had to learn and comprehend during the course of earning your degree is astounding. And no doubt you’ve had to learn much more, as science has continued to progress while you’ve been at your job.”

“I guess, yeah,” Dean says, completely taken aback. “It’s easier to learn when I get to put it into practice and actually work with people hands-on, rather than just reading about it in some giant textbook.”

Cas nods, like he’s filing away that information for another time. “I can see how that would be the case. You like to work directly with people and help them. Being able to train that way is more beneficial for both you and your patients. No wonder you’re so skilled at your job.”

Dean takes a quick sip of his coffee to mask the rush of heat that threatens to overtake him. “I mean, it’d be pretty shitty to my patients if I sucked at my job,” he jokes.

“From what I understand, there are plenty of nurses who are not as good at their jobs as you are.”

“Yeah, which sucks. They’re just hurting people by doing that. You shouldn’t go into nursing, or into medicine at all, honestly, if you can’t commit to providing the best quality of care you can give to every single patient you meet.”

A group of college kids enters the shop, immediately raising the decibel level as they figure out their orders. Dean and Cas head back outside, and Cas slips a pair of aviator sunglasses over his eyes. It’s an unfairly handsome look, and Dean squints up at the sun and curses himself for not bringing his own pair along.

“Have you heard from Sam recently?” Cas asks as they walk down the street towards where Dean had parked Baby. Dean grits his teeth.

“Just some texting,” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We talked on the phone a week or two ago, and I mentioned doing lunch again, but he blew me off. Again. Said that when he’s not working, he’s sleeping, and that I need to mind my own business, basically.”

“I’m sure he didn’t say it like that,” Cas offers, his mouth a small moue of sympathy. “I’ve texted him once or twice as well, though he’s slow to answer me sometimes.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, same with me. I guess this big project has still got him and Rowena losing their minds, but they’re both really into it.”

“What’s that saying? If you do what you love, you never work a day in your life?” Cas muses, stopping on the passenger side of the Impala.

That earns a derisive snort from Dean. “Yeah, that’s bullshit. _I’m_ doing what I love, and I can tell you it’s a lot of hard fucking work. Whoever said that was trying to get people to drink the Kool-Aid.” He unlocks Baby and they both slide inside. The air has a slight chill to it, but the inside of the car is almost too warm from the sun beating down on it. On a whim, Dean slides his fingers through his box of tapes, finding a worn one and pushing it into the tape deck. Night Moves by Bob Seger begins crooning through the car, making Dean feel immediately better.

Next to him, Cas hums unconsciously, slightly off beat with the song, staring out the window as the street slips by. He does that a lot, Dean’s noticed, almost like a soft echo of whatever music is playing. He didn’t know any of the songs Dean made him listen to at first, but he always cocked his head to the side, listening intently as he picked up on the melody or the driving rhythm. It didn’t take him too long to start the strange humming habit, which Dean should probably find annoying but mostly finds endearing.

The late afternoon sun is beginning to slip over the horizon, the sky bleeding into a faint pink. Golden light pours through the car, highlighting the lines and angles of Cas’ face in a way that Dean feels ridiculous to call heart-stopping, but it honestly is. The jut of his chin, the slope of his cheeks -- Cas is devastatingly handsome and doesn’t even seem to know it.

“I think whatever magic was within me is fading rapidly,” Cas says, his voice startling Dean out of whatever strange reverie he was having while sitting at this (really goddamn long, seriously, how long was he zoned out for and the light still hasn’t changed?) red light. He blinks, and sees Cas looking back at him with serious blue eyes.

“How can you tell?” he says after a momentary struggle to coordinate signals between his brain and his mouth. The light turns green.

Cas holds up a finger with a bandage wrapped tightly around it, which Dean somehow hadn’t noticed. “I accidentally cut myself while slicing a tomato about three days ago, and it hasn’t healed. It wasn’t a very deep cut, either. I’ve also been more fatigued lately, even more so than I would be from work.” His mouth twists a bit, annoyed. “And… I’m not entirely sure how to explain it, but it’s like there’s something _missing_. Inside of me, I mean. Like a well running dry. I don’t know, it’s odd.”

An uneasy feeling twists in Dean’s gut. “Well, Rowena did say your magical reserves or whatever would run out after a while. I don’t know if it works when the magic just dries up, but there are some drugs that can augment power for a bit, like, uh, vervenalin. There can be some pretty nasty side effects, though. I wouldn’t, um, really recommend it for humans.” He grits his teeth at what he’s saying, but Cas deserves to know about all the options out there, even if Dean has some major hangups about one or two of them. Okay, maybe just about one of them.

“Probably not worth it, then,” Cas sighs, slumping back against the car seat. “I guess I just need to get used to it. In a few years, I probably won’t even remember that it’s gone, since I don’t remember what the source is.”

“I can see if there’s anything else Sam could try --”

“No,” Cas cuts him off, “you said he’s very busy. I don’t want to distract him from his work. Besides, I’m not dissatisfied with my life at the moment, or, or disappointed or anything. Living with you, becoming your friend and meeting other people, my job at the Gas-n-Sip… I may not remember anything from before the alley, but for some reason I feel like I enjoy my life a lot more these days.” He gives Dean a small, crooked close-mouthed smile. “What I mean to say is that I’m pretty happy. And a lot of that is thanks to you, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth is suddenly dryer than a desert, and he grips the wheel so tight the leather squeaks in protest. “It’s your life, dude,” he says, voice scratchy, “you deserve to enjoy it. And you make me happy, too.”

Holy shit, he’s an idiot. An idiot with no brain-to-mouth filter, apparently. But instead of giving him a look like Dean has grown a second head, Cas is still smiling at him, that same crooked grin from before, but slightly wider, making the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper.

_Oh, I’m fucked_ , Dean thinks, and steers the car into a parking space.

***

Two weeks later, Dean walks out of the hospital after an overnight shift, pulling out his phone to check if Cas has texted him yet. They’re supposed to go get coffee before Dean takes him over to the Gas-n-Sip for his shift, and Cas had agreed to meet Dean by the employee entrance.

_5:06am >> I’m here 👍_  
_5:07am >> by the benches_

_5:21am >> just finished, be right there_

_5:21am >> hurry up i need caffeine ☕_

Dean chuckles down at his screen. Cas and mornings don’t exactly mix very well; he generally tries to be tolerable during these early morning coffee sessions, but sometimes the caffeine dependency jumps out.

The bushes next to the sidewalk rustle and Dean looks up, hoping to see the rabbit that several of his fellow nurses mentioned has been hanging out around the hospital for the past few mornings.

Instead, he’s met with feverishly bright yellow eyes and a fanged grimace. A snarl rips through the air, pained and _angry_ , and Dean’s own eyes widen as a partially-shifted werewolf leaps in front of him, claws scraping against the concrete.

“Whoa, hey buddy,” Dean tries, stepping backwards and putting his hands out in front of him, “it’s okay, take it easy. Do you -- if you need help, I can help you, okay? Just need you to calm down.”

The werewolf snarls again, and Dean tries to back away some more, putting distance slowly between himself and the creature. His mind races, trying to remember the moon chart the hospital keeps; it’s only halfway to the next full moon, he’s pretty sure. This is completely unheard of. And this werewolf is only partially transformed, which has to be extremely painful, and probably explains the unbridled aggression they’re currently displaying. If Dean can just get them to take a couple of deep breaths, then he can probably get them into the hospital --

With an enraged cry, the werewolf lunges at Dean, claws ripping and tearing at his scrubs. Dean tries to scramble back but trips over his own feet, falling backwards hard. Dazed, he manages to get his feet up and between himself and the wolf, kicking as hard as he can against the creature’s chest to try to knock it back. It works for a moment as the werewolf stumbles slightly, but with another frenzied growl it rushes forward again, claws raking down Dean’s leg. It’s not a hard blow, but still shreds his pants and draws blood, and Dean grunts in pain.

The werewolf’s breaths are panting hot and acrid against his face and throat, and Dean throws out a fist, knuckles meeting painfully with a semi-elongated snout. Then there’s a shout, and the wolf is tossed off of him, flying several feet and colliding with a metal trash can with a loud crash.

“Dean!”

Still a little dazed, Dean looks up into Cas’ concerned face. “Did you just… throw a werewolf?” he asks. Holy shit, Cas is _strong_.

“Dean, are you alright?” Cas asks instead of answering him. He kneels down next to Dean, hands hesitant as he carefully pushes the mangled hem of Dean’s pants up his calf and out of the wound. “Are you bitten?”

From the corner of his eye, Dean sees the crumpled form of the werewolf shudder and begin to rise, pain and fury blazing through their eyes. “Cas!” he shouts, even though it’s probably already too late --

“Get down!”

The electrical hum of a taser arcs over head, and the werewolf goes stiff, falling to the ground once more with a shudder. Coming out of the hospital doors are several members of the security team, one of them holding the deployed taser. A few nurses and doctors are behind them, trying to see what’s going on.

Dean slumps back against the ground in relief. The claw marks on his leg sting, but he can already tell they’re not that deep.

One of the security guards comes over to where he and Cas are on the grass. A couple of nurses follow him, rolling a stretcher with them.

Dean groans. “I don’t need that, I’m not hurt that badly. Just kind of bruised. And maybe a spot of Neosporin for my leg.”

“What happened?” the guard asks.

“I just finished my shift and was walking to meet Cas here to go get coffee, when the werewolf jumped out of the bushes and attacked me. I’m not sure how they managed to only partially shift, since we’re at least two weeks away from the next full moon, but I think the pain of a partial shift may be to blame for the aggression. If anything, you should be checking on them, not me.” Dean tries to wave away the nurses’ hands, suddenly grouchy as the adrenaline begins to wear off.

The two nurses, both of whom Dean’s had a couple of shifts with, ignore him. Cas, strangely, helps them lift Dean onto the stretcher -- actually, he lifts Dean nearly single handedly, which under normal circumstances would have Dean melting on the spot, but instead he just glares sullenly at his friend-turned-traitor.

“We are bringing the werewolf in for observation,” the security guard says, “and we’ll be notifying the authorities about this incident as well. They should be here soon after we do that; do you want to press charges?”

Dean feels like he’s just bitten down hard on a lemon. “Aw, come on, that poor werewolf is probably way more traumatized by this whole thing than I am. No, I’m not gonna press any charges. Just slap a band-aid on me and I’m good!” He looks at Cas, pleading. “C’mon, dude, don’t you want to go get coffee?”

Cas’ eyes are still wide with shock, and Dean feels momentarily bad for the poor guy who’s just had the adrenaline rush of a lifetime, probably. “You should let them make sure you’re okay, Dean,” he says quietly.

“This is bullshit, _you_ can refuse going to a hospital after getting mugged, but _I_ get knocked on my ass and have to go?” Dean mutters, incensed. The height of hypocrisy, honestly! Where does Cas get off --

Cas puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean realizes he’s trembling lightly. “Please,” he says, eyes wide and earnest and blue, and goddammit, how is Dean supposed to say no to that?

Obviously shit takes way longer in the hospital than it should, and by the time Dean is discharged (with _seven_ goddamn stitches in his leg, some butterfly bandages would’ve done the job just fine, thank you very much) he realizes that Cas has missed the start of his shift by several hours.

“I’m sorry I made you get up for nothing,” he jokes, limping only a little bit as he and Cas finally walk to the car. “I know you and mornings don’t exactly agree. You should’ve gone to work though, dude, instead of sitting around waiting for me in the hospital.”

“I called out; Nora understood that it was a family emergency,” Cas says, not really meeting Dean’s eyes.

Surprise rushes like a soft tide through Dean’s body, leaving him feeling warm and fuzzy. “Thanks,” he says, scrubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly. “That’s… that means a lot, man.”

Cas stands silently for a moment, not moving to get into the car, and Dean doesn’t know what to do. Getting jumped by a pain-crazed werewolf doesn’t really rank that high on the list of times he’s gotten hurt by patients; it’s a bit of an occupational hazard when you work at a hospital that specializes in supernatural care. Honestly, getting chomped on the hand by a naga-baby had hurt way worse, and the anti-venom had felt like fire as it flushed the baby’s toxins out of his veins. Stitches and a bruised ass? Basically a walk in the park.

“I don’t want to lose you, too,” Cas says, breaking the silence between them. He still won’t look at Dean. “Whatever family I did have, I don’t remember. But you’re my family now, Dean. And I can’t lose you.”

For a moment, Dean stands frozen, unable to react, and then he’s reaching out, pulling Cas into a rough hug against him. Cas gives a startled _oof_ but wraps his own arms around Dean, fingers digging into his back, face tucked into the curve of Dean’s shoulder.

Cas’ breath is ragged, and Dean can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. Dean just holds him, lets him work through it.

He’s no stranger to this kind of fear, nor to the pain of losing someone close to you.

Cas pulls back from the embrace first, but he doesn’t go far. His eyes are red-rimmed and he swipes his hand down his face, clearly exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he says, and at least his voice sounds more normal now. “This is… if I’ve felt this feeling before, I don’t remember. It’s hard to deal with.”

“I get it, Cas, I swear,” Dean says, trying to give him an encouraging smile. “And I’m not just saying that. I’ve lost important people, too; people I love. My parents. Almost lost Sam once, too, and I never want to go through that again.” The smile slips from his face, and he puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, incredibly serious. “I ain’t going anywhere. Not if I can help it.”

Cas shudders out one more breath before straightening his shoulders, seeming to shake off whatever anxiety and fear he’d been dealing with. “Thanks, Dean. I’m sorry to have put all of that on you just now. You’re probably tired.”

Dean’s stomach takes that moment to rumble obnoxiously, reminding him very vocally that he hasn’t eaten in several hours. It startles a laugh out of both of them.

“Maybe food first?” he suggests, and Cas looks pointedly at his shredded, bloody pants leg. Ah, right. “Um, delivery?” he says instead.

“Works for me. You can shower while we wait. You stink like antiseptic.”

“I can’t get my stitches wet, you’ll have to give me a sponge bath,” Dean laughs.

Cas shrugs. “If that’s what it takes,” he says, way too seriously.

“Oh, uh, it’s okay,” Dean says, heart suddenly beating a mile a minute in his chest. Sponge baths are _not hot_. “Just kidding, I’ll be fine.” _Shut up, boner._

“I just want to help however I can,” Cas says, and Dean melts a bit.

“Thanks, buddy, seriously. I appreciate it.”

***

The microwave dings just as Sam answers with a groggy “Hello?”

“Hey, Cousin It! Haven’t heard from you in a while!” Dean says, pumping his voice full of fake cheer as he dumps the steaming bag of fresh popcorn into a bowl.

“I told you, I’m gonna get a haircut soon,” Sam grouses, and Dean grins into the phone. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to check in and see how things are going.” Dean glances through the spice cabinet and grabs the salt, tossing a generous handful onto the popcorn for Cas. “How’s that research project treating ya? You and Rowena close to a worldchanging breakthrough yet?”

Sam sighs, and fuck does he sound tired. “Some days are better than others,” he says, and Dean can hear the clinking of glass in the background. “But we’re making progress, which is what matters. How about you, how are those stitches doing? I assume you’re taking care of them, otherwise I think your supervisor will definitely demote you.”

Dean glances down at his leg, which is now mostly healed except for the giant fucking bruise left behind. “Got the stitches out two days ago, which is great. I got really tired of wearing saran wrap in the shower.”

“Couldn’t get Cas to give you a sponge bath?” Sam jokes. Dean turns red, even though he _knows_ his brother can’t see him.

“Shuddup.”

“Ooh, hit a nerve, huh?”

“No,” Dean grumps. He can hear Cas turning on the TV in the living room. “Look, dude, I just wanted to see if you were free for lunch someday soon. We haven’t seen each other in forever, and I miss my brother.”

There’s some rustling on Sam’s end, like he’s switching his phone to another ear. Then another sigh. “I dunno, Dean, I’m honestly just super busy right now. You heard about all the other werewolves on the same day that you were attacked, right? All partially shifted and attacked people, too? There were a whole bunch of them across the state that it happened to. I think a couple of them killed people, and a few of them actually died from the pain.”

“Holy shit, really?” Dean asks, blinking in surprise. He’d heard about a couple of other shiftings, but not the rest.

“Yeah, it’s really bad. And it happened to both pureblood and turned werewolves, so it’s harder to pin down what the issue might’ve been.”

“Whoa, you’re looking into it? I thought you and Rowena were so busy you were barely eating or sleeping.”

Something starts hissing in the background on Sam’s end, but it quickly stops. “The state has us looking into it on the side. Nothing too strenuous or time-consuming. And actually, it’s been really helpful with my own stuff, it’s given me some interesting insight into shifting physiology and cryptozoological phenomena.” Excitement strengthens his voice. “So get this: there’s an incredible amount of energy that goes into these form transformations, which is obvious since fully-shifted werewolves experience intense hunger in both their wolf and human forms immediately after the shift. But it’s been really hard -- next to impossible, really -- to observe that energy transfer and expenditure while it’s in progress. But for the first time, a couple of hospitals and other places were able to get _snapshots_ of this process, which is huge! I’ve been poring over the data we’ve been sent, and looking at magical energy readings that we thought were next to impossible to achieve. But it turns out, maybe not! Because so many people and creatures harness that energy nearly every day!”

Dean frowns down at the popcorn bowl, unease making a space for itself in the pit of his stomach. “Sounds like some intense stuff, Sammy.”

“Oh man, you have no idea. It’s fascinating, and it also makes me wonder about the existence of possibly undiscovered shifting-based organisms, you know? Like, all the different ways this could be harnessed and utilized in the world. Obviously werewolves and skinwalkers are very physical representations of this energy-harnessing, but it also has me thinking about other possibilities, like, like selkies or something.” There’s more hissing coming from the background of Sam’s call, and he sounds a little distracted as he talks. “Maybe the tales of them taking their skins off and transforming into humans is representative of another shifting phenomena that was difficult to observe, but fascinating to think about, right? Like, the idea of all that potential magic and energy being stored in a single physical item, and never depleting? It sounds too good to be true! But who knows!”

Suddenly there’s a sharp crash through the speaker, and then Sam sounds far away, saying, “Ah, shit, ah fuck, shit, dammit.”

“Sammy, you okay?” Dean says, brow furrowing. “Sammy?” Fear joins the slick unease floating in his stomach.

“Sorry, Dean, I gotta go,” Sam’s voice says, close to the speaker again. “I was making some coffee for me and that weird tea that Rowena likes, and I accidentally dropped the pot. Fuck. I gotta clean this up. Talk to you later?”

Dean laughs, more relieved than he’d like to admit, and says, “Yeah, go clean your shit up. I’ve got movie night anyway. Later, bitch.”

“Bye, jerk.” The call ends, and he slides the phone into his pocket, picking up the popcorn instead.

“Were you talking to Sam?” Cas asks, turning on the couch as Dean walks in and sits down, putting the popcorn in front of them.

“Yeah, he blew me off for lunch again, but I actually got to talk to him for a bit this time, which was nice,” Dean huffs. “Still waist-deep in his research, the nerd.”

“That’s pretty deep,” Cas observes, stone-faced. “He’s very tall.”

Dean bursts out laughing, the noise startled out of him by Cas’ earnestly deadpan delivery. The fucker hasn’t broken, either, but there’s a clearly smug glint in his eyes.

“Oh man, I wish Sam had been here to hear that,” Dean chuckles. “Next time, I guess. What’re we watching tonight?”

Cas grabs a plastic shopping bag and pulls a DVD case out of it. “Isaac was telling me about this movie he’d watched the other day and how he enjoyed it quite a bit, and since I know you’re a fan of horror movies as well, I thought we could check it out? He loaned me his copy.”

Taking the case, Dean turns it over in his hands. The regular box art is gone, replaced by a plain piece of lined paper with _Leprechaun_ scrawled in pencil tucked into the plastic sleeve.

“How old is Isaac?” he asks. He feels like he already knows the answer.

Cas shrugs. “Nineteen or so, I think?”

“Yeah, sounds about right.” He considers their options for a few more seconds before giving his own shrug. “Sure, why not. Charlie’ll kill us if we do _Back to the Future_ without her here anyway.”

Ninety minutes later, Dean blinks and collapses back against the couch, laughing so hard he feels like his lungs are about to explode. “Holy shit, that was… that was incredible. And bad. Incredibly bad. Please tell Isaac to burn that DVD when you give it back to him, because that movie is a crime against humanity.”

Cas is still staring at the credit roll as it travels up the screen, the expression on his face somewhere between dumbfounded and amazed. “That is ninety minutes of my life I will never get back,” he says. “I’m never talking to Isaac about movies ever again.” He also slumps back, staring up at the ceiling with disbelieving eyes. “How did a movie like that even get _made_?”

Still chuckling, Dean says, “Oh man, I think there are some podcasts out there you’d really enjoy. People with money do stupid things with it is the general answer, though.”

Cas rolls his head to face Dean and, oh, shit, he’s suddenly a lot closer than Dean expected. The couch isn’t that big to begin with, but at some point during the movie, they must have gravitated towards each other until they were nearly touching, and now all Dean can focus on is the heat radiating off of Cas, the way their knees would touch if Dean leaned over just a bit more. Cas is only inches away and Dean can see every shade and variation in his eyes, the stubble on his cheeks, the bow of his lips.

Dean licks his own lips, involuntary, and watches Cas’ eyes focus on the motion; can’t miss the way Cas’ gaze stays there. His mouth feels dry, the air in his lungs thick as he keeps staring at Cas. He waits for Cas to sit back, to move away. Waits for the walls around them to rise once again. Waits for one of them to chuckle defensively and make a dumb joke.

But Cas doesn’t lean back.

And Dean --

Dean leans in and kisses him.

Cas’ lips are chapped, his stubble scratchy against Dean’s cheeks, and it’s not quite right until it is, until their noses bump and Cas tilts his head just enough to line up their mouths.

Cas makes a low, soft noise between them. Dean lets his hand slide forward, bumping over Cas’ knuckles and up his arm, just letting his fingers feel the shape of the muscle, learning. Cas brings his own hand up, cups his large, warm palm over the side of Dean’s neck, leaves it resting there. His thumb strokes lightly at the hair at the base of Dean’s neck.

That makes Dean shiver and shift closer. Cas lets him, lets Dean press him back against the arm of the couch behind them. The kiss deepens as Cas slides his tongue into Dean’s mouth, tilting his head back for a better angle. The hand on his neck smooths forward, fingers brushing down the hollow of Dean’s throat, resting in the dip of his collarbone, making him shudder again. He can’t stop the soft noises he’s making, can’t help the way his hips press forward against Cas’ own, the way he moans into Cas’ mouth as Cas pulls him in.

His hands are in Cas’ hair, messing it up probably, but Cas has his own hands fisted in Dean’s shirt, his mouth hot and wet and expansive beneath Dean’s own. Heat curls at the base of his spine, ignites into an inferno as he feels Cas hard underneath him, licking up his nerves until he thinks he might shake apart. He thinks about getting on his knees for Cas, about spreading Cas out on a bed and sucking him in, and something inside of him clenches and bucks.

Cas groans when he grinds their hips together again, his lips slick against Dean’s mouth, nipping carefully at the well of his bottom lip. Dean’s mouth feels bruised and wet, and it’s good, so good, he thinks he could kiss Cas forever if he wanted. Cas seems to be okay with it, if the way he leans into Dean’s touch is any indication.

Something in the back of Dean’s mind notes that Cas is a pretty good kisser for a dude who probably doesn’t remember how to do it.

Dean says, “Holy shit, hold on --” or at least, that’s what he _tries_ to say, but Cas shoves his tongue back into his mouth. His hands slip to the hem of Dean’s shirt, sliding underneath and pressing hot against his skin, like brands, but Dean still makes himself pull away.

“Dean --”

“Wait, hold on,” Dean says, trying to reorder his jumbled thoughts. Cas’s hair is wrecked from Dean’s hands, his lips red and wet, and it takes everything he has not to fall back into Cas’ hold. “Just wait a second, Cas, do you know what’s going on? Do you remember this? I don’t want to, uh, overwhelm you, or anything, or do anything you’re uncomfortable with, and you’re a pretty fucking good kisser but I dunno if that’s just muscle memory or what --” He’s babbling, and Cas’ eyebrows are drawing together in confusion, and oh, god, Dean can’t believe he’s wrecked this before it’s even started.

Cas grabs Dean’s hands and holds them in his own. “It’s a little overwhelming, but not for the reasons you think,” he says, the confusion draining from his face and being replaced with a small, fond smile. “I don’t… have any specific memories of sex, but I know what I’m doing. And it’s you.” He reaches up and takes Dean’s face in his hands. “I trust you. I want this, I swear.”

The words cut through Dean’s tension like a knife and he slumps forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Yeah?” he asks, pressing a light kiss to Cas’ mouth.

“Yeah,” Cas replies, kissing him back. His hands move from Dean’s face to his shoulders and down the length of his back, soft and easy, caressing him, before making their way back up and tangling in Dean’s hair. His fingers are firm but gentle, and suddenly the image of Cas laid out in front of him, hands holding his head while Dean blows him, makes a home for itself in Dean’s brain, beating against the inside of his eyelids with the rhythm of his pulse.

Dean pulls back again, grinning at the way Cas tries to follow his mouth and the slight pout when he won’t let him.

“What now?” Cas’ voice is rough. “Dean, please --”

“Easy, dude, easy. I was just gonna suggest we move this to a bedroom. Kinda want to be on a bed when I suck your cock.”

The way Cas’ eyes darken at his words makes the heat in Dean’s stomach flare. “Let’s go then,” he says, pushing against Dean’s shoulders, nearly tumbling him off the couch. Dean staggers upright and Cas is right behind him, kissing him again, lush and open. He tastes a bit like the popcorn, salt and a hint of butter, and Dean licks deeper into his mouth as Cas walks them backwards through the room.

By some miracle they don’t trip over any furniture, and then there’s a door at his back that it feels like Cas is trying to kiss him _through_ , the wood scraping roughly against his shirt. Dean fumbles for the knob, nearly falls on his ass when it suddenly turns and opens and Cas pushes them inside. He vaguely notices they’re in his own room, bed neatly made, basket of clean laundry that needs to be put away sitting in the open closet.

Dean’s hands go to Cas’ pants, fumbling with the fly. Cas tucks his nose against the column of Dean’s throat, sucking open-mouthed kisses up and down the length of it, his own hands gripping the bottom of Dean’s shirt and lifting. Dean has to step back to get it off, and he chucks it into a corner of his room, uncaring. Cas’ pants are still on, and that is a _tragedy._

“Here,” Cas says, unzipping his own fly and pushing his jeans down his thighs and past his knees, stepping out of them neatly. The outline of his dick is visible, huge and pressed up against his boxers, his legs muscled and curved. Dean nearly goes to his knees right there.

“Come on, the rest of it,” he says, shucking his own pants and boxers. He feels a little ridiculous toeing off his socks, but it’s okay, because Cas is taking off his shirt, revealing the trail of dark hair at his navel, the line of his hips. His dick hangs heavy and full between his thighs, the head already flushed, and Dean _needs_ to get his mouth around it, like yesterday. Arousal churns in his gut and his own cock jerks, precome already starting to bead at the tip.

He pulls Cas in for another searing kiss, lining their hips up and grinding, relishing the twin groans it pulls from both of them. Cas puts his hands on Dean’s hips, steering them towards the bed, says, “Dean,” in that gravel-rough tone against Dean’s throat.

When he feels the edge of the bed against the backs of his thighs, Dean turns them quickly and makes Cas sit down, then drops to his knees on the carpet in front of him. He nudges his way between Cas’ legs, nosing at the jut of Cas’ hip. A hand winds its way into his hair, gripping lightly, and Dean looks up, relishing the slight burn in his scalp. “Yeah?” he asks, his own voice rough, checking one last time. Cas rolls his eyes.

“Yes. Please, Dean.”

He doesn’t waste anymore time after that, just turns his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to the hot shaft before wrapping a hand around the base and sucking Cas down. He tastes like skin and salt on Dean’s tongue, a little bitter from precome, and Dean bobs his head down and down, taking as much of him in as he can. Cas is _big_ , and it’s been a little while since the last time Dean did this, so it’s not long before his throat catches and flutters and he has to pull off a little bit.

Cas gasps above him, hand tightening in Dean’s hair, says, “Fuck, Dean, your mouth,” with a wondering tone. Dean takes a breath through his nose and presses down again, taking even more, until his nose is pressed into the wiry hair at the base of Cas’ dick. Cas groans, loud and deep, both hands in Dean’s hair now, pulling in the way that sends sparks tingling down his spine and makes Dean moan and close his eyes.

He wraps his other hand around himself, jacking slowly and making his mouth as tight and wet as he can, sliding up to tongue at the slit. Cas bucks his hips with a shout, the muscles in his thighs tightening around Dean’s head. He sucks him down again, letting his tongue trace the vein on the underside as he goes, heat curling at the base of his spine. Cas’ hands in his hair have him dizzy with arousal, and the hand between his legs speeds up.

Cas is huge and searing hot in his mouth, and Dean pulls off with a pop, panting slightly as he looks up at Cas. His eyes are wide as they stare down at Dean, gaze hazy, and one of his hands detaches from Dean’s hair to trace the shape of his puffy, abused lips. The remaining hand urges Dean back down, easy, and Dean doesn’t have to be told twice.

He lets his mouth go hot and easy, lets Cas snap his hips forward as Dean fights for breath, and it’s good, it’s so good. Dean swallows around him one, two times, rolls his tongue over the head, and Cas shudders when he comes, says Dean’s name like a prayer.

Dean sucks it down, keeps his mouth loose as he cleans Cas up, careful of oversensitivity. Cas’ hand is still in his hair, and Dean bows his head, panting, his hand flying over his dick as his scalp prickles and burns.

Above him, Cas says, “Come on, Dean, let me see,” and it pushes him over the edge as he comes with a cry, mashing his face into the side of Cas’ knee. The hand in his hair immediately loosens, petting through the strands, soothing. “Good,” Cas murmurs. “Good.”


	5. Chapter 5

Whistling, Dean shuts the door to the Impala with a satisfying thud, checking to make sure she’s locked properly before he heads into Rowena’s office. A light mist drizzles down from the clouds overhead, blanketing the world in soft gray light. He can feel his hair getting wet, and he pulls up the collar of his jacket a little more around his neck. The rain feels bracing, honestly, and he can’t keep a grin off his face as he goes and knocks on the front door.

He’d woken Cas up with a blowjob that morning, slipping under the covers and sucking him off slow and gentle until he’d come shaking into Dean’s mouth. Afterwards, Cas had pulled him up and kissed him while he jacked Dean off, fast and hard, leaving Dean breathless and dizzy in the aftermath. Then they’d kissed before Cas left for work, sweet and easy, just like they had every morning for the past few days. It was… Dean could admit he was incredibly happy. Even the crappy weather couldn’t bring him down today.

After a few moments, Sam opens the door, and Dean reconsiders his unshakeable mood. The dark circles under Sam’s eyes are even more pronounced than the last time they’d seen each other. His skin looks pale and bruised, and he’s lost a noticeable amount of weight. Dean sucks in a breath, very carefully pasting a smile on his face. “Heya, Sammy,” he says, trying to inject cheer into his tone.

Sam steps back to let Dean in, his answering grin tired and weak. “Thanks for coming, man. How’ve you been?”

They walk down the hall towards Rowena’s office, but instead of going in there, Sam steers them through the workshop door, which Dean has only been through a couple of times. Dean says, “I’ve been good. Great, actually. Uh, this is kinda awkward, but I wanted to tell you this in person,” and then hesitates, trying to figure out the best way to word what he’s about to say.

Sam side-eyes him as they go through the workshop, past a long table piled high with books and a pad of paper covered in sprawling notes. “You’re making me nervous. What’s up?” he says, apprehension clouding his face.

“It’s nothing bad, I swear,” Dean promises. “But, uh, me and Cas --” he stops again, because technically he and Cas haven’t really made anything _official_ yet, even though they’ve spent every night in bed together for the past week. They’ve been too caught up in the newness of each other to have any kind of talk yet, but Dean knows he’s already in too deep to want to get out any time soon. “Uh, yeah. Me and Cas. We hooked up a few days ago, and, you know, it’s been really good,” he finishes lamely, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“God, was he _actually_ giving you sponge baths?” Sam asks, but he elbows Dean in the side, a real smile breaking out over his face. “I can’t believe you’re dating the dude with no memory you found beat up in an alley. But as long as you’re happy, then that’s great.” He smirks. “Though I won’t say I didn’t see this coming.”

“Shut up, no you did not.”

“Oh please, every time we talked or hung out, all I heard was _Cas this_ and _Cas that_. I have eyes and a brain, Dean. I know a sure thing when I see it.”

“I don’t talk about him that much!”

“Hello, boys,” Rowena says from behind them, interrupting their bickering. “What’s got your panties in a twist this time, Dean?” She looks better than Sam, but only just, and Dean suspects a heavy reliance on makeup to disguise her exhaustion. 

Sam laughs and says, “He and Cas got together, and he’s annoyed that I told him I knew it was going to happen.”

Rowena clasps her hands together in front of her heart. “Oh, how romantic. You owe me ten dollars, Samuel, don’t think I forgot.”

Dean squawks, “Wait, you had a bet going?” as Sam sighs and pulls out his wallet. 

“Aye, do you think we’re blind? I could tell you and Castiel had something special between you the moment I laid eyes on that poor boy. And Sam said you talked incessantly about the lad.”

“I can’t believe this,” Dean mutters, but he can’t help the pleased smile that tucks itself into the corners of his mouth. 

“Alright, enough idle chatter. Thank you for agreeing to help us with this, Dean, I know your schedule is busy, but Sam figured you would be the best person to approach about getting our newest acquisition up and running.” Rowena ushers Dean over to an alcove off the workroom, where something is draped in a large white cloth. “There’s been a few modifications made for our own purposes, but I assume you’ll have no trouble figuring it out.”

She pulls the cloth down, revealing a hospital patient monitor, though it’s clearly been tampered with. There are a few non-standard ports that have been added to the side, and an additional screen rests on a swivel next to the main monitor. It’s a top of the line brand, and Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise. 

“You guys starting a medical practice on the side?” he asks, looking over the monitor. It sits on a rolling cabinet, making it easy to move around; it’s the heavy-duty kind used in Dean’s hospital that can deal with the latent magical energies many magic users possess. “Thought you were too busy with whatever you’re currently working on.”

“This is for our research,” Sam explains, moving closer. “We’re going to do some monitoring of magical energy levels and stuff, so we got this altered to allow us to do that.”

Dean frowns, running his hands over the back ports. There’s a large round one that he doesn’t recognize, outlined in a purple plastic casing and shoved between the ECG and USB ports. “Are you guys working with subjects or something?” he asks.

Rowena shakes her head. “No, and unfortunately I can’t really tell you much more. We’re already flirting quite heavily with our NDA at the moment. Please, be a dear and show Samuel how the bloody thing works.” Impatience creeps into her tone.

“Right,” Dean says, looking nervously at Sam, who just kind of shrugs. Rowena appears to be particularly short-tempered today; it’s probably best to just do what she wants and get out of the way. “Okay, so I just need the connections that came with this, and I’ll plug ‘em in and show Sam what’s what.”

“Wonderful,” Rowena says. “I’ll leave you boys to it.” She exits the workshop, picking up a book on her way out.

Sighing, Sam slumps his shoulders and goes to one of the cabinets lining the walls of the room, coming back with a bag full of cords and cables. “Sorry about that,” he says, “she’s just been really stressed out the past few weeks. I think our client is really pressuring her for results, and it’s starting to get to her.”

“You guys are working way too hard,” Dean says, going through the cables and sorting them out on an open table. ECG, power cable, pulse oximeter, USB… it all looks like standard stuff. “And no offense, but you look like shit. Even Rowena looks like she’s about thirty seconds away from just keeling over. Working like this isn’t healthy, Sam.”

“God, not this again,” Sam rolls his eyes. “How many times do I have to say I’m fine?” He stands behind Dean, watching as he hooks up the power supply and begins connecting cables to various ports. The monitor turns on with an electrical hum, different colored lines running in unsynchronized blinks across the main screen. The secondary screen remains blank, though a small green light along the panel turns on. 

“Just say it a few more times, maybe I’ll actually believe you,” Dean mutters. He plugs in several of the cables, though none of them go with the unknown purple port. “Okay, so here’s a basic rundown of what these lines mean, you listening?”

Sam nods, then says, “Hold on a minute,” grabbing a pen and ripping a piece of paper off a nearby notepad. “Okay, go ahead.”

Dean points at the various lines. “You’ve got your heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, respiration, and temperature. All pretty self-explanatory, right? Depending on what those readings are, the monitor may sound alarms. Since you just have this one piece, I wouldn’t worry too much about trying to put any software on your work computers that will let you turn off the alarms remotely. Actually, you probably shouldn’t do that at all. Always check the alarms.” He’s slipping into teaching mode, but it’s hard to stop himself when this is almost word-for-word what he says when students shadow him. “If an alarm sounds, figure out why. Most of the time, it’s because one of the sensors isn’t picking up any information because it’s come loose or something. While that’s the common explanation, don’t let yourself get too comfy.”

Sam scribbles down notes as Dean talks, nodding along. “Okay, great. What’s the second screen for?”

Dean shrugs. “You tell me, dude. I think that’s one of Rowena’s modifications or whatever.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Sam says. He looks at the ports and cables on the back of the monitor and says, “I think she mentioned we’re still waiting on a piece that supports the changes, that must be what this big purple port is for.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Great, thanks, Dean. I know this was probably really easy and simple for you, but Rowena and I feel a lot better that you helped us out.” He frowns thoughtfully as he continues to examine the monitor. “I’m not entirely sure what Rowena plans on doing with this, but she seems excited.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and says, “Excited? Mostly she just seems tired. And crabby.”

Sam makes a face at him. “Don’t let her hear you say that, or she’ll turn you _into_ a crab.”

“Didn’t realize she had that kind of power.”

“If she doesn’t yet, she’s getting there. Actually, I think we both are.”

Unease curls under Dean’s jaw and he asks, “What does that mean?” It comes out sharper than he intended, too suspicious. The unease slides down the back of his throat and takes root in his gut.

He sees the exact moment that understanding dawns on Sam’s face. “Holy shit, you think I’m using again, don’t you?” he snaps, anger turning his eyes bright and hard. 

“I don’t know, Sam,” he says, trying to remain calm. “The last time you said you felt more powerful, I had to check you into rehab.”

Sam’s fists clench at his sides, his jaw trembling as he says, “I wish you would trust me. What happened before isn’t happening again. I’m not using vervenalin, this isn’t some other drug, this is real! I don’t know what else to say!”

“And I don’t know what I’m supposed to think!” Dean exclaims, fear twisting inside him. “You look like you haven’t slept in, hell, two months, you’ve barely been eating, and you keep talking about increasing your power! Ruby ain’t around to push you into it this time, but I know how you think, Sam! Whatever it takes, right? Whatever you gotta do and damn the consequences.” He takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “Whatever is going on, it’s not worth the drug and you know it.”

Two bright spots of color appear high on Sam’s cheeks and god, his whole body is shaking with righteous anger now. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not fucking using it, isn’t it?” he retorts. “Every morning I wake up and the first thing I think about is popping a pill. Every morning, Dean. Chasing that high -- it’s what every junkie wants. But every morning I make the conscious goddamn decision to get up and do something else with my life. When I was using, it may have started because I needed a quick fix for my magic, a quick power up, but it stopped being about that pretty fast. Then it just became about the high. And you _know that_.” He hisses the last part at Dean through his teeth. “What’s happening now with my improved abilities? My new strength? It’s because I’m working my ass off to get better. To help others. Because that’s what you taught me to do! So stop treating me like a bomb about to go off, and fucking trust me for once!”

On one of the worktables, an empty glass jar explodes, sending shards scattering across the room with a sharp noise. For a moment, everything is quiet.

Dean stares at the jagged pieces, heart pounding doubletime in his chest. Sam is also staring at the spot where the former jar was, mouth agape. 

“Sam --” Dean starts.

“You should go,” Sam says, cutting him off. He won’t look at Dean, instead walking over to a small cupboard and taking a broom and dustpan out. His shoulders are broad and tense as he keeps his back to Dean.

Dean tries again, “Sam, seriously --”

“I said leave!” Sam shouts, whipping around, gaze furious. “I’m… I need to get back to work. I need to clean this up.” Suddenly his shoulders slump, like a puppet whose strings have just been cut. “What I’m doing is important. I just wish… I wish you’d respect that,” he says, then turns away from Dean once more.

Heat prickles behind Dean’s eyes, and he clenches his jaw to stop it. “Fine,” he mutters, and leaves, footfalls heavy as he exits the workshop. The door shuts behind him with a thud.

He trusts Sam, he _does_. But he’s also so fucking scared for him, playing around with forces and powers that still defy explanation, no matter how deeply they are studied or understood. Sam’s good at what he does, obviously, and Rowena is an excellent mentor, but the allure of strength is hard to ignore. Whether it’s natural or synthetic, Dean has firsthand experience on how it can suck Sam in and twist him until he hardly recognizes his little brother. He never wants to listen to his brother scream in agony as he detoxes ever again.

Wrapped up in his thoughts, he nearly runs into a blonde man wearing a fitted suit standing outside of the office entrance, his fist raised to knock. “Oh, apologies,” the man says, lowering his hand, “My name is Nick Morgenstern. I called yesterday about setting up an appointment, but got no response, so I figured I’d drop by and see if I could talk to someone in person. Can you direct me to Rowena MacLeod?”

“Sorry, pal, I don’t work here,” Dean mutters, about to push his way past this dude and leave. The man’s eyes are deep set, his hair styled to look artfully mussed. He looks like a regular office worker (with maybe a little too much affinity for styling gel) but something about him sets Dean’s teeth on edge. Well, either that or Dean’s just a pissed off loser at the moment. 

“Did you just have an appointment with Rowena?” Nick asks, hopeful. “I’d really appreciate being able to see her today, I’m trying to get a specific binding removal ritual completed and she comes highly recommended.”

Dean stops himself from rolling his eyes and blowing this guy off. “No, I was just… dropping something off for my brother. He’s her apprentice. Look, they’re super busy right now, dude, I don’t think Rowena can help you with whatever you’re trying to do. I’d go look for another witch for help.”

Nick frowns and tuts, pulling a small black notebook and pen from inside his suit jacket, flipping through a few pages. He scratches something off one of the pages, then makes a show of shutting the book and slipping it back into his pocket. “That’s so disappointing,” he says. 

“Yup, sorry. Excuse me, I need to get going.” Dean pushes past him finally and heads towards the Impala. His skin crawls as he reaches her, and he surreptitiously looks back at Nick as he unlocks the door.

The man is watching him, gaze intense from under his brows. He gives him a grin when he sees Dean looking back at him and says, “That’s quite the car you have there. Very classic, and clearly well cared for.” 

“Thanks,” Dean says. Just one last basic conversation line and he can leave. Then he can go home and sit on the couch and watch old MST3K episodes while he waits for Cas to get back, and then he’ll be happy again as he watches Cas get increasingly agitated over bad movies. “She’s important to me. Good luck with your appointment.”

Nick nods. “Absolutely. See you around.”

“God, I hope not,” Dean mutters as he slides into the Impala, turning the radio up as soon as the car starts to try to drown out the rest of the world. 

“No Quarter” rumbles through the speakers, Robert Plant’s hazy vocals punctuated by the driving guitar. Dean tunnel-visions on the asphalt of the road so hard that everything around him dissolves into the gray mist of the rain that’s still coming down, punctuated by the _slip-slip_ of the Impala’s wiper blades over the windshield. He’s so focused on the lines painted on the pavement that he nearly misses the turn for his street. 

He wants to go into his room and listen to music and block out the world. He wants to go back and yell at Sam, beg him to just talk to Dean. He wants to go for a long drive and maybe not look back. He wants to hug Sam like he’s 5 years old again.

Some small voice inside of him screams that he needs to apologize, but he shoves that down and away, covering it over with fear and anger. It’s only three in the afternoon, but hey, it’s his day off. He’s allowed a drink. Maybe two. 

When Cas gets home, Dean is firmly moving from tipsy to drunk, a couple of empty beers and a quarter-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of the couch. Cas cocks his head at the assortment as he hangs up his jacket. “Decided to have a party without me?” he quips. 

Dean looks up from where he’s laying on the couch and smirks. “It’s a party now that you’re here.”

Cas crosses the room and sits down next to him, letting Dean lay his head in his lap. His big hands automatically come up to card through the strands of Dean’s hair and Dean turns into him, hiding his face in Cas’ midsection. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Cas asks, keeping his voice low.

Dean grunts but doesn’t answer. Instead he winds his arms around Cas, hugging him awkwardly around the waist.

Cas hums and keeps petting through his hair. “Did you have another fight with Sam?” he guesses, and dammit, he’s too observant for his own good.

Dean sighs and unwinds himself, sitting up. He promptly groans as the room spins a little bit -- that whiskey is starting to hit hard. “I’m worried about him, and he doesn’t want to listen to me,” he says. “He’s so focused on this project at work, and he says he’s fine, but I just… I want to trust him so badly. But I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.” He squeezes his eyes shut tight, rubbing the palms of his hands into the sockets hard enough that little colored lights explode across the darkness. 

Cas makes a humming noise next to him, and then his large, warm hand is back, spanning across the back of Dean’s neck and massaging lightly. “He’s your brother and you know him best, but maybe you should listen to him. He’s a smart young man, and he knows he can go to you for help when he needs it,” he says.

It makes sense even though he hates it. “I don’t want him to get hurt again,” he mutters, shoulders slumping. He’s lost this battle, he knows, but he won’t admit it.

Cas says, “No one wants that. But don’t destroy your relationship with him just to protect him,” and then he stands up, holding out a hand to Dean. “Come on, why don’t we order something for dinner. And you need to drink some water.”

Dean groans but stands, grasping onto Cas’ hand like a lifeline. He hesitates for a moment, then kisses Cas, just a short, soft meeting of lips before he pulls away. “Thanks, Cas,” he says. Cas smiles in return.

“Always, Dean.”

***

Dean is washing some dishes in the sink when his phone starts buzzing wildly on the countertop, Cas’ name flashing across the screen. He frowns and dries his hands; Cas is very diligent about not using his phone when he’s at work, even when it’s totally dead at the gas station. 

He swipes his thumb across the screen, holding the phone against his ear. “Cas? What’s up?” he asks, turning off the sink.

At first all he hears is labored breathing, which immediately puts him on edge. Is the station getting robbed? Did some creep steal Cas’ phone and call the first number they found in it? “Cas?” he repeats, urgent, “Cas, are you there? What’s going on?”

Finally, Cas’ voice comes through the phone, but it’s faint. “Dean,” he says, and he sounds like he’s in pain, “can you come… pick me up? I -- I’m having a migraine. I don’t think I can…” he trails off with a grunt, takes a few more deep breaths before continuing, “I don’t think I can work like this.”

Dean is already moving towards the door, shoving his feet into his boots and not bothering with the laces. He’s got an emergency pack of Excedrin in the Impala’s glove compartment, thank god. “I’m on my way. Have you called your boss yet?”

“She’s actually… she’s already here, doing some paperwork. She told me to go home, but I don’t think I can take the bus like this.”

“Definitely not,” Dean agrees. “I’ll be there in just a minute, Cas, okay? Deep breaths, buddy.”

“I -- should let you drive,” Cas says, and Dean shakes his head even as he throws the Impala into gear.

“I’m good, if talking is helping you then keep going.”

Cas is quiet for a few moments, and Dean takes a turn a bit faster than he probably should with only one hand on the steering wheel. He feels like he should have seen this coming; but Cas hadn’t had a migraine for nearly a month now, and Dean had been lulled into a false sense of security. The worst part is that he can’t figure out if the migraines are related to Cas’ amnesia and past head trauma or if they’re just random. They tend to range in intensity, but this one seems to be the worst Cas has ever had, at least that Dean’s seen. He grits his teeth, trying to decide if he wants to fight Cas about going to a neurologist. 

“Dean?”

Cas’ voice is tinny and small coming through the speakers of his phone. It sounds like he’s speaking from a distance, too; maybe he’s in the station’s backroom? Taking another turn, Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, Cas?”

“Sorry, was just checking that you’re still there.” He hears rustling over the call. “I can’t see my phone screen anymore, I’m sitting on the floor and forgot to take it with me, I wasn’t sure if you had hung up.”

Dean squeezes the hand wrapped around the steering wheel and says, “I’m still here, only a minute or two away. I’ve got some meds for you as soon as I get there.”

There’s a relieved sigh followed by a pained hiss. “Thank you. I should probably start keeping some on me all the time,” Cas says, rueful. “I guess I grew complacent.”

“Me too,” Dean says, turning down the street for the Gas-n-Sip. It’s large yellow sign glows brightly above the street. “Hey, I’m about to park, so I’m going to hang up now.”

“Okay, I’m in the back room. Nora can show you.”

“Great.” He hangs up the call and tosses the phone onto the seat next to him, smoothly sliding the car into an open spot. The parking lot is pretty much deserted, and some dude in a suit is standing at one of the pumps, filling up some late-model Honda. Through the windows of the station store Dean can see a large flatscreen TV hanging from a wall playing the news.

There’s a woman standing behind the checkout counter when he runs into the store, and he vaguely recognizes her as Nora. He’s seen her a few times when dropping Cas off in the mornings; he says she likes to come in and do a quick walkthrough before taking her daughter to school. No one else is in the store, thankfully.

“I’m looking for Cas,” he says as she looks up.

Her eyes go wide and she nods. “He’s resting in the back room. The door’s over there and should be unlocked, go ahead on in.”

Dean moves past the racks of junk food and magazines towards a door with a red “Employees Only” sign hanging on the front. He pauses for a moment, then knocks softly. “Hey, Cas, it’s me,” he calls through the door. “I’m coming in, okay? I’ve got water and drugs for ya.” He waits another breath, just in case Cas is sitting in front of the door, and then opens it slowly.

The room is dark and crammed full of cardboard boxes full of chips and sodas, he assumes. There’s a small table at the back with two chairs pushed in underneath. A hunched over figure is sitting on the floor -- which is clean, thank god -- only his dark, messy hair visible as the light from the doorway sweeps across the room. 

Shutting the door behind him plunges the room back into darkness, and Dean shuffles forward slowly, trying not to trip over anything. He can make out vague shapes as he goes; when he gets to the huddled lump that is Cas, he holds out the bottle of water and pack of Excedrin he’d carried in, keeping it close to Cas’ eye level so he won’t have to move his head too much. “Brought you the good stuff,” he says, keeping his voice low and quiet.

Cas lifts his head, and Dean can’t really see his face, but he thinks he glimpses the beginnings of a smile. He mumbles, “Thank you, Dean,” and takes the proffered items. After a moment, he hands the water bottle back to Dean and turns his face down again. “Give me a moment,” he says, muffled, “and then we’ll leave.”

“Take your time, man. Migraines are a bitch.”

“Indeed.” He takes a deep breath and lifts his head again. “Okay, I’m good. I just need my phone and we can go.”

Dean gropes around on the table and finds Cas’ shitty burner phone that still hasn’t been replaced with something better since Dean had bought it. Every time he mentions getting a new one, Cas refuses, insisting that he doesn’t need anything fancy and that he quite likes his phone, thank you very much. It’s small, unobtrusive, makes calls and texts, and fits in his pants pocket; that’s all Cas needs, apparently.

“Found it,” Dean says. “I can hold onto it for now if you want.”

With a groan and a hiss, Cas pushes himself off the ground. “No, I’ll take it, thank you,” he says, holding out his hand. His voice, gruff on a normal day, sounds like it’s been put through a meat grinder and spat back out. “The medication is already beginning to help; I’m feeling a lot better.”

Dean gives him the phone, leaning in impulsively to press a soft kiss to his stubbled cheek as well. Thank fuck it’s dark in here, because he can feel a heated flush spread across the back of his neck and across his face. “There you go. Let’s get out of here.”

Cas makes a soft, surprised sound but doesn’t say anything. Just follows Dean to the storage room’s door, though he keeps close behind, warm against Dean’s back.

“You may want to close your eyes,” Dean warns as he twists the doorknob. “It’s going to be bright, and you need to adjust.”

“Right.” Cas nods.

The store is glaringly bright after the cool darkness of the back room, and Dean has to blink rapidly to adjust. When Nora sees them come out, she waves. “Feel better, Castiel!” she calls. “I’m taking you off the schedule for tomorrow as well. Just let me know when you’re good.”

Cas peeks an eye open and nods at her. “Thank you, Nora. I’m sorry to leave you like this.”

“Trying to work with a migraine is hell on earth, believe me, I know. Don’t worry about it.” She gives him a kind smile. 

“Your boss is a saint,” Dean says as they get into the car. He turns the radio volume down low, trying to keep it just loud enough that it will cover the sounds of the road without hurting Cas’ head.

“Yes,” Cas agrees, leaning his head back against the leather seat. He goes quiet after that, just closing his eyes for the drive home.

By the time Dean parks in front of their building, Cas has opened his eyes again and looks more alert than before. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but the tension at the corners of his eyes has lessened significantly. 

“How’s your head?” Dean asks.

“Better. Somehow I always forget how debilitating a migraine can be.”

“Yeah, they’re tricky like that.”

Back inside the apartment, Dean goes and pours Cas a glass of water and says, “Drink this slowly,” as he hands it to him. 

Cas sips at it and sits down at the table. For a moment, Dean looks around the room, then goes and grabs a folded blanket hanging over the back of the couch and drapes it over Cas’ shoulders, tucking it around his body. It probably doesn’t actually help that much, now that he thinks about it. At least Cas doesn’t immediately shake it off. 

After a few more sips, Cas sets the glass down and lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry to have worried you,” he says. “It just came on so suddenly, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Hey, no, you did the right thing,” Dean consoles. “So this was just out of the blue? You didn’t have an aura yesterday that you didn’t tell me about? No small headaches or other pain?”

Cas shakes his head. “No, I was just standing behind the counter reading a magazine and watching the news, like I usually do. There was some news report about a lake in Nebraska being completely sucked up by a waterspout, and then my head felt like it was splitting open.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a soft exhalation. “It’s been so long since my last headache, I’d hoped that they were done.”

Dean chews on his bottom lip for a moment, wondering if he wants to pick this fight again. “Maybe you should consider seeing a specialist,” he says finally, bracing for impact.

Instead of snapping at him, Cas gives a defeated sigh and says, “Maybe I should.”

Dean blinks in surprise. “Wait, really?” 

“You don’t have to look so shocked,” Cas mutters. 

“Uh, yeah, I think I do, Mr. Hospitals Are For Other People, Not Me.”

Cas sighs again. “Well, with my waning magic, maybe I should start going. I can’t keep hoping or expecting magic to fix my apparent health problems.”

This was not a battle Dean expected to win today, that’s for sure. He stares at Cas for a moment longer, then offers, “I can ask around at the hospital for any recommendations, if you want. Then we can make an appointment.”

“Sure. I think that sounds good.” Cas picks up the water glass again but doesn’t drink, just holds it in his hands, staring down into the liquid. “I just hate feeling useless,” he says quietly, and that --

Well, Dean can relate a little too much to that.

He sits down across the table from Cas and, before he can second guess himself, reaches out and takes one of his hands in his own. “Hey,” he says, and waits until Cas looks at him to continue. “You’re fine. We’re gonna figure it out, okay?”

Cas turns his hand over, clasping Dean’s and squeezing it, his eyes soft as he looks at Dean. There’s still doubt lingering in his gaze, but he gives Dean a small smile. “You’re a good man, Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s heart flips over in his chest. He winks at Cas. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he says, trying to mask his flush. 

They sit there with their hands clasped for another few silent moments; Dean rubs his thumb back and forth over the thin skin on the back of Cas’ hand, feels the tendons shift with each pass. The depths of Cas’ eyes are a calm pool inviting him in, and Dean lets himself breathe normally for the first time since Cas called earlier. Anxiety still buzzes in a low hum across his skin, but it’s manageable now; there’s a plan. Dean knows how to follow plans.

Another calm breath, and he regretfully breaks the moment. “You should go lie down,” he says, giving Cas’ hand an affectionate little shake. “Let me know if you need any more meds or anything, but a nap will probably help a lot.”

“Yes, I’m exhausted,” Cas admits, and then yawns almost immediately. The look on his face afterwards is the perfect mix of surprised and offended, and Dean snorts out a laugh.

“I can tell,” he says. 

“You have to be nice to me, I’m not feeling well.”

“Who said that’s a prerequisite?”

“Fine. You have to be nice to me or I won’t return this morning’s favor later.” Cas smirks dangerously. 

Dean blushes as he remembers the sloppy blowjob he’d given Cas in the shower, the tile digging into his knees as Cas had moaned above him. There hadn’t been time for any reciprocation; Dean had been too worked up anyway and had come almost as soon as Cas pulled him up and thrust a thigh between Dean’s legs, kissing him hard and just barely touching his dick. 

He thinks about Cas’ pink lips wrapped around him, those blue eyes staring up at him with heat and purpose blazing in their depths, and sucks in a breath. “You fight dirty,” he accuses. His jeans feel tight. Goddammit.

Cas smirks again and stands up from the table. “I fight to win,” he says, low and gravelly, then walks down the hall. 

Dean realizes he’s left his water glass behind for Dean to clean up. He chuckles, shaking his head. “Dick,” he says fondly.

Cas may be hurting, but he’s still Cas. Dean won’t stop being grateful for that.


	6. Chapter 6

“How did I let you convince me this was a good idea,” Dean mutters, trying not to let his hands shake as he hauls his duffel bag into the overhead bin. “We should’ve just driven down to the Gulf.”

“This way is faster,” Cas says from behind him.

“Not a very relaxing vacation if I stress myself into an early heart attack on the way there.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. If anything is going to give you an early heart attack, it’s your proclivity for ordering a bacon cheeseburger every time we go to Benny’s. You’re a nurse, shouldn’t you be setting a good example for your patients?” Cas teases.

Dean folds himself into the seat next to the window, gripping the armrests so hard his fingers ache. “We all have our vices, Mr. Binge-Watches-Netflix-Until-Two-A.M.” He’s proud of the way his voice only shakes a little bit as he delivers that calculated burn.

Cas slides into the row, stashing a backpack that Dean knows is full of books under the seat in front of him. “Hey,” he says, gentle, wrapping his hand around Dean’s and carefully prying it away from its death grip on the armrest, “you’re okay. We haven’t even left the ground yet.” He slots his fingers between Dean’s, holding his hand.

Heat crawls up the back of Dean’s neck; he knows that it’s obvious he’s nervous, but he didn’t think it was that bad yet. “I hate planes,” he whines, sinking down. His knees bump against the seatback in front of him; the occupant, a teenage girl with red eyes, turns around and bares her fangs through the gap between the seats.

“Yes, I know, you stated this fact approximately 57 times between security and actually stepping onto the flight,” Cas says, chuckling. He lets go of Dean’s hand to pull the backpack back out from underneath the seat. “Here, I brought an extra pair of headphones since you probably forgot yours. Listen to some Metallica, you’ll calm down.”

If Dean wasn’t approximately thirty seconds away from puking, he’d kiss Cas.

By the time the plane jerks and disconnects from the gate, Dean is firmly entrenched in Master of Puppets, eyes shut tight as he focuses on the music. His heart speeds up rapidly, and he grips Cas’ hand tight enough to know that it probably hurts, but that’s the price Cas has to pay to make Dean fly. He should’ve asked one of the doctors at the hospital for an Ambien prescription or something, just to knock him out. An abuse of his position? Maybe. Infinitely better than being conscious for a whole flight to California? Absolutely.

Three hours later, they land in San Diego, and Dean nearly starts weeping with joy. He pretends he doesn’t see the way Cas winces and stretches out his hand once Dean lets go of it.

Out the small window he can see blue skies dotted with perfect white fluffy clouds, palm trees swaying in a soft breeze. It’s the middle of September but looks like the perfect height of summer here; it also means the beach will be pretty empty, all the kids back in school. Dean grins, already planning an epic beach cookout for the two of them. A bonfire, hot dogs, lots of beer, some s’mores -- yeah, this’ll be amazing. Maybe even worth the flight.

The cottage Cas found online is about an hour’s drive out of town, nearby the South Carlsbad State Beach Park. They drive up the coastline, stopping a couple of times at overlooks along the way; Cas is mesmerized by the sight of the ocean, his eyes watching the shifting waves like he’s trying to memorize some pattern only he can see. “It’s incredible,” he says, his voice awed. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been to the ocean before, but it’s like I’m seeing it for the first time right now.”

Dean has to agree; the last time he went to the beach was with his parents, nearly two decades ago in Rhode Island. He remembers standing on a spit of rocks as waves crashed against it, throwing mist into the air against his face, the air a little more chilly on the New England coastline than it is here. He’d helped Sam scramble over the wet rocks and the two of them had stood there for a few minutes, just staring at the gray-blue waves before Sam had demanded his help looking for tide pools.

The water here is a much deeper shade of blue, the sunlight glinting off it like a postcard. Dean licks his lips as a salty breeze ruffles his hair. Overhead, seagulls and other ocean birds wheel through the sky, their sharp cries mixing with the rhythm of the waves as they wash over the sand.

They stop at a grocery store in Encinitas on the way, stocking up on some essentials. Dean buys a lot of bacon and smirks at Cas while he drops it in the cart; Cas rolls his eyes and adds a box of oatmeal. The back of their rental car is stuffed by the time they roll down the bumpy access road to their little rented slice of heaven.

The outside of the cottage is weather beaten but well-maintained, with a small deck off the back that has steps down to a short trail that leads to the beach. Cas stands on his toes and runs his hand across the top of the doorframe to retrieve the key. The interior is spare but homey, the furniture old and worn but sturdy. The bedroom has a large window that looks out on the beach, promising what Dean can only imagine will be some pretty spectacular sunsets. The sheets on the bed are clean and there are towels in the bathroom, and Cas finds a coffee maker under the kitchen sink. Dean feels the rest of the tension from the flight melt slowly from his bones.

Cas was right. Dean _does_ need this vacation.

They go out for lunch to some hole-in-the-wall crab shack that Dean had spotted, the kind where you place your order at a window and wait for them to bring you plastic baskets full of steaming food. There’s a couple of picnic tables scattered in front of the shack on some grass and they grab one, sitting in companionable silence while Dean rolls a cold beer between his hands and Cas reads a pamphlet about a local aquarium with interest. When their food arrives, Cas falls on his meal with gusto, cracking open crab legs like he’s starving. Dean follows suit, grinning at how ecstatic Cas seems.

“The food here is so fresh,” Cas says, carefully wiping his hands on a napkin. “It’s amazing how big of a difference there is between the seafood here and in Kansas.”

“Coastal versus landlocked, man,” Dean points out. “But you’re right, this is awesome. Can’t get a meal like this back home.”

Back at the cottage, Cas holds up the aquarium pamphlet again and says, “If we have time, could we go here? It seems interesting.”

Dean laughs. “As far as I can tell, we’ve got nothing but time. Unless you’ve got a surprise schedule I don’t know about, I wasn’t planning on doing anything except sit on the beach and try not to get sunburned.”

Cas’ mouth twists in an amused smile. “No, that just about covers it. I didn’t plan anything because I wanted to make sure you had the chance to relax. You’ve been pretty stressed out lately.”

That pulls a sigh from Dean. “I was hoping you hadn’t really noticed,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat between them.

“Kind of hard not to when you toss and turn all night.” Cas’ tone is light, but it makes Dean’s heart drop a bit. Cas is a light sleeper, and he and mornings do _not_ get along. A wicked glint appears in Cas’ eyes, and he says, “But I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that while we’re here, I’ve got a pretty good plan to tire you out at night.”

“Oh, so there is a plan,” Dean says, a line of heat zipping down his spine. “Do I get a say in any of it?”

“It’s for me to know and you to find out.” Cas’ voice has dropped even lower than usual, a burr that practically drags over Dean’s scalp, leaving him shivering pleasantly. “But I don’t think you’ll have any complaints.”

Dean groans in the back of his throat. “You’re killing me, man.”

“Wrong type of death, but you’re getting close,” Cas smirks.

“I’ve created a monster.”

“You don’t know what I was like before you found me, maybe this is just how I am,” Cas says blithely. “I need you to put sunscreen on my back; I want to go swimming.”

***

Dean should have seen it coming, but Cas obviously loves being out in the water again, diving through waves like he was born to do it. His long, powerful arms and strong legs propel him forward with ease; he must have been a competitive swimmer in his previous life. Dean joins him for a bit, the ocean cool and refreshing against his already sun-reddened skin, but he’s pretty content to sit under an umbrella on the beach, drinking beers out of a cooler they’d found in the cottage and watching Cas swim. He reads for a bit, making his way through a well-thumbed copy of _Cat’s Cradle_ as the sun arcs through the sky.

They go out again for dinner, heading into town and eating at a place on the boardwalk that serves some of the best oysters Dean’s ever had. There’s a group of local teens hanging out on the beach nearby, a couple of them with large surfboards that they paddle out onto the water, watching the sunset. Once the moon rises, they hug each other and load into beat-up Jeeps, trying to make it home in time for curfew.

As they leave the restaurant, Dean marvels at how clear the evening is, looking out across the water until the horizon line fades into the darkening night sky.

Cas pushes him towards the bed when they get back to the cottage, leaving a trail of clothes behind them as he kisses Dean deep and slow, his tongue hot and wet in Dean’s mouth. They bang against the wall a couple of times, uncoordinated and perfect as they make their slow dance to the bedroom, not bothering to turn on any lights.

Dean stumbles and falls back when he hits the mattress, landing with a soft _oof_ and looking up as Cas follows him, as Cas crowds over him and presses their lips together again. The moon shines through the window, its white face distorted over the dark ocean, casting the only light in the room in silvery ribbons across the bed. Dean feels his lungs seize in his chest as it limns Cas in a soft glow, catching in the wild tufts of his hair that Dean has to run his fingers through.

Cas presses their hips together, grinds down hard, and Dean arches off the bed with a hiss, heat tingling in the pit of his stomach at the way their dicks slide against each other. He digs his fingertips into Cas’ muscled back, bites a kiss in the stubble underneath Cas’ jawline, pants into the shell of his ear.

“Dean,” Cas rumbles, and fuck, Dean can feel it in his _chest_. “Dean,” Cas says again, wraps a hand around both of them, squeezing almost too tight, and his eyes are wide and dark, glinting in the shifting moonlight. “What do you want, Dean?” he asks, and it takes a moment for Dean’s brain to figure out the words, too wrapped up in the way Cas’ hand is huge and hot as it slides up and down, jacking them together. Cas squeezes again and Dean gasps, and he doesn’t know what he wants; the list is too long when it comes to Cas, and he wants _everything_ , and it’s nearly too much.

“Want you,” he gasps out, whining when Cas releases his grip on them in favor of sucking a line of kisses down Dean’s throat to his chest, teeth biting carefully at his nipple. They bite harder when Dean moans, tugging until the bud is just beginning to ache, and then move to the other side, lavishing the same amount of attention on his second nipple. Dean shakes, lets his thighs go easy and wide so Cas can slot between them. He lets his hands thread through Cas’ hair, pulling at it as Cas moves down his chest and stomach, leaving little red marks dotted across the skin of Dean’s hips.

Cas looks up at him, and Dean can’t really see his eyes in the darkness but he knows they’re dangerous, then swallows Dean down. His mouth is hot and wet, his tongue dragging slow and maddening up the underside of Dean’s dick as he bobs up and down, pausing to press the tip of his tongue into the slit at the head. The suction is just shy of not enough, and Dean’s thighs shake as he pulls at Cas’ hair with a groan. “Cas,” he says, and fuck, he sounds _wrecked_ , like he’s the one deepthroating at the moment. “Cas, please.”

He doesn’t really know what he’s begging for, but Cas seems to, pulling off of Dean with a soft, obscene noise. Moonlight shifts, liquid and slow, over his face, showing Dean his red, perfect mouth, the way his tongue darts into the corner of his lips to lick away a drop of precome. A desperate, aching noise punches out of Dean, heat spreading like molten lava through his belly and up his spine.

Cas presses kisses to the insides of his thighs, his teeth stinging as he shifts down on the bed. It creaks softly underneath them, and Dean curls his fingers and toes in the soft, worn sheets, trying to ground himself. Cas pulls away for a moment, and Dean bites back the whine that builds in his throat, only to gasp it out at the way Cas’ thumb presses soft and exploratory against his hole, followed by Cas’ lips. He laves at his entrance with his tongue, holding Dean down by his hips as he licks at him over and over again, then stiffens his tongue and presses inside.

It feels like it goes on forever, Cas’ tongue shifting hot and wet inside him, the wet-slick sounds of Cas’ mouth audible over the soft, desperate noises tumbling from Dean. Cas shifts again, throws one of Dean’s legs over his shoulder, opening him up even more and pressing a spit-slick finger to his hole, running it gently along the rim before slipping inside. Dean clenches around it, throwing his head back against the mattress with a groan, his cock hard and aching against his hip.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Cas says, shifting up to his knees and reaching over the side of the bed to where his duffel bag is laying on the ground -- lazy bastard had barely unpacked, just thrown it there when they’d arrived. Dean makes a soft, wanting noise as Cas’ finger slips out of him, but all is forgiven when Cas comes back with a bottle of lube.

He opens it with a soft _snick_ , drizzling a bit on his fingers before leaning over Dean again, pressing their mouths together in a heated kiss as he pushes two fingers inside with no preamble. Dean moans, can taste himself faintly on Cas’ tongue, a little sharp, a little bitter. Cas eases his fingers in and out of Dean with slow, deliberate movements, opening him up a little more each time. He pauses, strokes inside of Dean, the tips of his fingers tagging over his prostate, and Dean would jackknife off the bed if Cas wasn’t holding him down.

“C’mon, Cas, I can’t --” he pants, breaking off with a thin noise as Cas slips another finger inside of him, all the air rushing out of his lungs.

“You can,” Cas mutters, his other hand on Dean’s hip, thumb rubbing slow circles over the skin. He fucks his fingers deep into Dean, spreading them apart inside of him, and Dean feels his balls tighten, arousal coiling tight at the base of his spine. He grips Cas’ forearm, heat and anticipation electrifying every sensation. Cas tucks a kiss behind his ear, bites softly at the lobe, before pulling back and sitting up. His eyes look otherworldly as silver light bathes the room, and something in Dean’s chest shifts, digging into the space behind his ribs, catching in his throat.

“Please,” he whispers into the air between them, “please, Cas.” His skin feels too tight, like he could explode at any minute. “Want you.”

Cas’ face shifts, and he pulls his fingers out of Dean, hands shaking as he picks up the bottle of lube and drizzles even more into one palm. He jacks himself quickly, spreading the lube around, then grabs Dean’s hips, moving him until he’s practically in Cas’ lap, thighs spread wide around Cas’ hips. Heat rushes up Dean’s face, but he forgets about it quickly as the head of Cas’ dick tags against his hole and he groans; he doesn’t have any leverage like this, can’t buck his hips or grind down. Can only take what Cas gives him.

Cas doesn’t tease him much more, though, just presses against Dean until the head slips inside. They both gasp, and Cas looks down between them, watches himself sink into Dean’s body, gripping Dean’s hips so tight there will no doubt be bruises tomorrow. He pushes into the hilt, pausing just long enough for Dean to adjust, then pulls back out again, keeping his thrusts slow but hard, filling Dean over and over.

Dean writhes in Cas’ hold, a flush running down his chest, and he digs his heel into Cas’ ass, arching into him. He reaches up, gets a hand around the back of Cas’ neck, pulls him down into a sloppy, messy kiss, mouths open against one another. Dean sucks on Cas’ tongue, revelling in the low groan that pulls from Cas, rolling his hips as best he can in time with Cas’ rhythm. He feels incredibly full, dick leaking against his stomach, and when Cas runs his fingers up the length of it, he nearly comes right then and there.

The air smells like salt and sweat and sex around them, and the head of Cas’ dick keeps bumping against his prostate on every other thrust. Cas speeds up, fucking in and out of Dean deep, and Dean can feel it in his _throat_ , can feel the way sparks are beginning to shoot off inside of him. He wraps his arms around Cas, Cas’ name falling like a mantra from his lips, voice wrecked from the hitching moans Cas has pulled out of him. He’s so close, can feel it forming white-hot and inevitable in the pit of his stomach, and he makes himself open his eyes, wants to see Cas when it happens.

Cas wraps his palm around Dean, tugging once, twice, huge and sweaty, and that tips Dean over the edge, makes him choke on Cas’ name as he comes, dick pulsing between them, covering Dean. His thighs shake as heat twists in his gut, fingers clawing at the sheets and Cas’ shoulders.

Cas isn’t far behind, groaning as Dean tightens around him, and he presses in and in and in, emptying himself inside of Dean and filling him up, hot and wet and sticky and perfect.

Moonlight dances across Cas’ face, shifting like waves as he shudders and comes down, still pressed inside Dean. He tucks his face into the curve of Dean’s neck, pressing his lips against Dean’s hammering pulse, then takes a breath, pulling his hips back.

Dean shivers as Cas slips out of him, threading his fingers through Cas’ sex-mussed hair and pulling him up for a long, slow kiss, trying to convey his gratitude with just the sweet press of their mouths together.

His thighs are still trembling, and he’s going to be aching tomorrow, but fuck, this was exactly what he needed.

***

The next few days follow that pattern: beach, food, sex, and not much else. Freckles pop up all over Dean’s arms, face, and chest no matter how much sunscreen he wears, and Cas spends hours one night just holding Dean down and kissing every one he can find. It’s the sweetest torture Dean’s ever had to endure as he shakes apart underneath Cas’ hands and mouth.

Afterwards, Cas lays with his head on Dean’s chest, thumb rubbing back and forth over a nipple, Dean’s rapid heartbeat slowing back down as he gets his breathing under control. Outside, the ocean slides over the sands with a whispering noise that Dean can only just hear inside the cottage. Cas presses a kiss to his collarbone, nothing more than a soft caress of lips, and Dean tilts his face down, letting Cas’ hair tickle against his nose and chin. He smells like sun and the sea, and it makes something balloon in Dean’s chest, pressing painfully against his ribs and up his throat.

“Thank you,” he whispers between them, hardly moving his lips. He can barely hear himself, but Cas shifts, looking up into his face, the point of his chin digging into Dean’s chest, eyes half-lidded with the beginnings of sleep.

“For what?” he asks, and it rumbles through Dean’s body like he’s driving down an old dirt road, not laying in bed with Cas on top of him.

The words stick in his throat, but he forces them out. “Just -- for this, I guess. For knowing I needed this.” His eyes sting, and he blinks rapidly.

Cas yawns and says, “You’d have done the same for me,” like this is no big deal, like this isn’t the first time in a long time someone has done something _just_ for Dean.

“Yeah, but --” he fishes for the right words, trying to figure out exactly what he’s trying to say, “this is -- this is a lot. I mean, I’m just some guy. This is more than I deserve.”

That makes Cas frown and prop himself up on his elbow; Dean kind of wants to kick himself for making Cas move off of him, but Cas is staring down at him, eyes narrowed. “You’re not just _some guy_ ,” he says, and god, the burr of his voice sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. “You’re a good man, Dean, and you’ve been under a lot of stress recently. You needed a break, and I knew how to give you one. The work you do is important, and so are you. You put so much of your time and energy into helping others; for once, let someone help you.”

Dean’s mouth feels desert dry as he stares up at Cas. “I --” he starts, but Cas just shakes his head.

“You can’t tell me I’m wrong about this. You needed to get away for a bit before you burned out.”

Well, that much is true. Between work, worrying about Sam, and trying to schedule an appointment with the perpetually booked neurologist for Cas, Dean had felt like an overtight drum. Even now, on this incredible trip that Cas had put together for him, Dean still had moments where he thought about how far away from home they were, how he wouldn’t be able to help Sam if there was an emergency, or assist his coworkers at the hospital if they needed him. How he couldn’t do his job, just because he was weak and needed to relax.

Cas leans down and kisses him, snapping Dean’s spiral. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s okay,” he says, giving him a warm smile.

Dean sighs and sits up, leaning back against the headboard and digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m just -- I feel so worried these days, especially about Sam,” he says. “He’s the only family I’ve got left. I’d do anything for him, but lately I’ve been thinking that I just… I don’t have what it takes. What I can do, it’s not enough.”

Cas sits up with him, putting a hand on Dean’s knee, gentle and grounding. “That’s not true,” he murmurs, and god, Dean wishes he could believe him.

“It kinda is,” he says, a choked, bitter laugh bubbling up out of his throat. “Sammy is… he’s strong. He’s _powerful_. Got more magic in his little finger than I have in my entire body. I couldn’t help him with that when he was younger, and it landed him in a ton of trouble, and the same thing seems to be happening again.”

“Whatever is going on, it isn’t your fault,” Cas says. “And it doesn’t matter that you don’t have the magical capabilities that he does. That’s not the reason for Sam’s struggles. But he knows he can always turn to you for help.”

Dean is quiet for a moment, closing his eyes against the sensation of Cas’ thumb unconsciously swiping back and forth over his knee. He blows out a breath, eyes still closed, and says, apropos of nothing, “I’m the only person in my family with no magic.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Don’t know how. Both sides of my family had it for generations, some more than others, but they all had it.” A corner of his mouth ticks up in amusement. “My mom had way more magic than my dad, but he still had a bit. Me? Nothing. Zip, zilch, nada. Not even a speck of witch-sight.”

Cas stays silent but his thumb continues to pass back and forth over Dean’s knee at a steady pace. Dean takes it as encouragement to keep talking. “They would’ve been great teachers for Sammy, ‘cept they got in a car accident when I was twelve. Hit by a semi, flipped completely over. Car was totaled. Dead on arrival at the hospital. Sammy took it really hard. I did, too, obviously, but he was only eight when it happened. Was convinced that he could’ve saved them, if we’d been there. That he was powerful enough for that.” He takes a deep breath, blows it out. Cas’ hand squeezes gently. “We went to go live with a friend of our dad’s, Bobby, who took us in without question. You’ll meet him someday, hopefully. Gruff old bastard with a heart of gold, but not a single magical bone in his whole damn body. Had no idea what to do with Sam’s magic, and I sure as hell didn’t know either. We tried, but --” he sighs, breaking off.

“You did your best,” Cas supplies.

Dean snorts. “As good as two people who can’t even light a candle with magic can do, I guess, sure. Probably could’ve done a whole lot better, too.”

“Dean.” Cas puts two fingers under his chin, tilts Dean’s face towards him. His expression is serious, but his eyes are kind. “You were a child. You took care of your younger brother as best you could, but no child is equipped to become a parent overnight. Having or not having magic wouldn’t have made it any easier or any better.”

“But Sam --”

“Sam is an adult now,” Cas interrupts. “It’s wonderful that you’re so loyal to him, that you’d do anything for your family. It’s one of the things I admire most about you, Dean. But you are not _lesser_ just because you don’t have magic and Sam does, or because you can’t be every solution to his every problem. You’re allowed to relax and think about yourself from time to time, I promise.”

Dean’s chest aches, and he wants to believe Cas so badly, he does. But Sam is still his little brother -- still his responsibility. And Dean would rather die than let something bad happen to him. Again.

He doesn’t say any of that though, because he can see the exhaustion lining Cas’ face, the way his eyelids droop even as he fights to keep them open. So he gives Cas a small smile instead, leaning forward to brush a kiss across his lips. “Thank you,” he says again, and he means it.

Cas pulls Dean back down, Dean’s head pillowed on Cas’ chest this time. His heart beats slow and heavy and methodical against Dean’s ear. A hand brushes over his head, and Dean closes his eyes. “Go to sleep,” Cas murmurs, voice drifting off into the night. He falls asleep quickly himself, breathing deep and even.

Dean smooths a hand over Cas’ chest, waits until he’s certain that Cas is out for the night. A sharp, warm sensation stabs against his heart. “Love you, Cas,” he whispers, eyes on the moon floating outside the window.

A secret between them, just for now. Just until Dean can figure out how to stop being a coward.

***

It’s the night before they leave, and Cas suggests they go for a walk on the beach. The moon hangs full and bright in the sky, casting plenty of light across the sand and waves, and Dean agrees, wanting to get away from rinsing more sand out of bathing suits for a bit. The night air is just beginning to turn chilly, a breeze dancing off the water and ruffling their hair as they walk and hold hands. The seasons are turning, and Dean is grateful for this last bit of summer here in Southern California. It feels like a moment frozen in time.

“Never thought I’d be the kind of guy who goes for long, romantic walks on the beach, but here we are,” Dean teases. It’s just the two of them as they walk, their shadows stretching in an exaggerated line in front of them, twin columns of darkness against the silvery ground in the moon’s light. Every few steps, the tide washes over their bare feet as they step on the compact wet sand.

Cas’ brow knits in confusion. “Is that a reference to something?”

“Not even Hallmark was safe when you had your brain drain, huh.”

“You could always enlighten me.”

“Hallmark is more Sammy’s thing than mine. You two can have a cheesy rom-com marathon when Christmas rolls around. I’ll drink beer and be, you know, _cool_.”

“If Hallmark isn’t your thing, then how do you know enough about it to reference it?”

Heat flushes down Dean’s neck. “Long walks on the beach aren’t actually a Hallmark thing. Just kinda the same sentiment. Dumb, romantic -- that sort of thing.”

“I’ll ask Charlie what your favorite Hallmark movie is, I’m sure she knows,” Cas says with a sideways smirk.

“Hey, that’s cheating! Uh, I mean,” Dean stutters, “it would be cheating if I had a favorite. Which I don’t. Like I said, more Sam’s thing.”

Cas chuckles and shakes his head. “Right, of course. You wouldn’t be caught dead watching something like that.”

“Damn right.” Dean flashes a grin at him, then keeps looking. Cas’ hair is windswept and messy, and the light from the moon highlights his cheekbones so sharply that he looks like he could be a statue. He’s wearing one of Dean’s shirts, an old flannel that he’d tossed in his bag as an afterthought when packing, and the collar flutters against his throat in the breeze.

Cas has taken to the ocean like, well, a fish to water. Dean’s never seen him so comfortable before; even in their apartment, Cas sometimes moves stiffly, like he’s not quite used to it. But here, walking across the sand while the ocean moves and splashes in the background, Cas seems truly in his element.

Maybe he grew up around the beach, or lived there before his memory loss. Dean opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly Cas shushes him, looking around sharply.

“What? What is it?” Dean asks, keeping his voice low. He looks around as well. There doesn’t seem to be anything there; just sand and water, their footprints extending in a line behind them. “Cas? What’s wrong?”

Cas’ eyes have narrowed, and Dean is struck by the image of a predator tracking down prey. Or a threat. “There’s someone here,” he whispers to Dean, pulling him closer. “It doesn’t… something doesn’t feel right.” His head swivels back and forth; nothing seems off, but Dean feels uneasy.

He tugs on their joined hands, heading back the way they came. “Let’s go, then. Let’s get out of here.”

Cas nods and begins to follow him. But before they can take more than five steps, the ocean surges upwards, and three silvery shapes break through with a splash, spraying them with mist.

“You always were a sharp tracker, Castiel,” a voice calls, authoritative and deep. “Though you lack follow through, as I recall.”

“A flaw that will prove fatal tonight, certainly,” says another voice, this one smug and smarmy sounding. Dean hates it instantly.

“That’s enough monologuing from the peanut gallery,” a third voice says, more feminine than the other two and filled with purpose. “We have a job to do. Let’s make sure our own follow through happens.”

Dean blinks, trying to figure out if his eyes are playing tricks on him in the moonlight as the three shapes shift and extend, a silvery outline sloughing off their backs as they stand, forming into humanoid shapes. The figures move forward towards the shore, legs gaining definition with each step, round black eyes shifting and elongating, turning human, gazes cold and dispassionate. Flippers transform into fingers, gray skin disappears as human flesh takes its place, and Dean stands there, frozen, as three selkies step out of the ocean and take human form in front of him.

One of them, a woman with long blonde hair that sticks wet to her forehead, shakes herself out as she walks onto the beach, stretching her arms over her head with a groan. “I can’t remember the last time I had to shift,” she complains. “Does it always feel this restrictive?”

“You get used to it,” one of the other two replies. He’s tall and has dark skin and a wide, handsome face, lines at the corners of his eyes showing maturity and experience in his gaze. He turns to the third, a slightly shorter balding man with a bit of a paunch. “After a while, it’s like taking off and putting on a favorite coat, right, Zachariah?”

“If you want to think of it that way, Uriel,” Zachariah says -- he’s the one with the annoying voice. Dean grits his teeth. “I’ve never been a huge fan of shifting, honestly. I tend to only do it when I have to. Like right now.” He smiles and waves at Dean and Cas. “Hello, Castiel. Left us in quite a pickle, haven’t you? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Cas positions himself slightly in front of Dean, still holding his hand. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asks, tone polite, and Dean gapes at him, because _hello_ , three mythical creatures just walked out of the ocean and now Cas wants to have a conversation with them?

The blonde woman raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, so that’s what happened,” she says. “Bartholomew and Ishim took everything but your life, apparently. Interesting. You’re practically naked without your skin.”

“This changes nothing,” Uriel says. “We will carry out our mission and leave. Castiel, you have been a disgrace for quite some time now, and I see your deviant ways continue.” He sneers at Dean and Cas’ clasped hands. “Even with no memory, you should have known better than to consort with one of these mud monkeys.”

Dean’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Hey!” he says, offended. None of them pay any attention.

Cas’ brow furrows, and he shifts into a slightly more defensive stance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you and what do you want?”

Uriel shakes his head, still moving forward. The other two spread out, surrounding Dean and Cas. “Still nothing? Without your skin we knew you’d be easy to take down, but like this? Well, it’s practically child’s play at this point.”

“Hey, pal, beat it before I call the cops,” Dean barks. “If you leave us alone, I won’t even tell the world that you actually exist.”

The blonde woman rolls her eyes. “I don’t think that’s something we’ll really have to worry about,” she says, and Zachariah grins next to her.

“I agree, Rachel. What was it the pirates used to say? Dead men tell no tales?”

Cas’ demeanor changes instantly, and he bares his teeth at them, his arm thrown across Dean’s chest like that will protect him. “You won’t hurt Dean,” he growls. “I won’t let you.”

Zachariah steps forward, closing in on them. “Maybe worry about yourself a bit more, Castiel. Who cares what happens to the human anyway. After all, it’s gonna be your head we bring back to Lucifer.”

“Who --” Cas starts, eyes narrowed, and then he gives a pained cry, doubling over and clutching his head.

“Cas!” Dean exclaims, but can’t do much more than that as the three selkies rush them. They’re fast and strong, and Dean just barely ducks their fists, punching Zachariah in his soft stomach and pushing him away. It doesn’t seem to do much, but Dean has been working with supernatural creatures for years -- he knows how to deal with preternaturally strong beings who want to rip his throat out.

Zachariah comes back with his own punch across Dean’s jaw, making his head ring. He tastes blood in his mouth as he struggles to keep his footing, looking up just in time to avoid another blow. He manages to duck behind Zachariah, smashing his hands down on the back of his head. Zachariah drops to the sand, groaning, but he doesn’t get up right away, and Dean turns back towards Cas and the other two selkies.

The blonde woman, Rachel, is pulling a long silver blade out of her sleeve, and Dean headbutts her, a sick crunch coming from her nose as she cries out and stumbles back, blood dripping from her nose. Dean’s forehead throbs painfully, but he kicks the knife away, and it skitters across the sand, glinting in the moonlight. Cas is still kneeling on the ground, hands gripping his hair, and Uriel is coming up behind him, another long-bladed silver knife in his hand. “Cas!” Dean shouts again, running and trying to tackle the large selkie to bring him down.

But Uriel just grabs Dean by the throat, lifting him up into the air. Dean chokes, scrabbling at the hand clenched tight around his airway, legs kicking wildly. The selkie bares his teeth in a menacing smile, white against the darkness, squeezing his hand tighter. “Getting rid of you mud monkeys is going to be so satisfying,” he says. “How fitting to start with you, interloper.” Dean writhes and struggles in his grip, dark spots creeping up at the side of his vision as he fights for air. He can feel his hands getting weaker as he loses oxygen, wonders if he’ll die of asphyxia or because his windpipe gets crushed.

The tip of a silver blade pierces through Uriel’s throat, his eyes going wide and mouth dropping open in surprise. He lets go of Dean, who falls to the sand, ankle rolling with an unpleasant snap underneath him. Dean yells but looks up, vision clearing enough to see Cas pull the blade from Uriel’s throat with a sickening sound, eyes alight with a righteous fury that makes them burn from within.

“You will not harm a single human, _brother_ ,” he seethes. “Not while I still live.” Uriel drops to his knees, blood bubbling from his mouth as he stares up at Cas before slumping over, eyes wide and glassy.

Behind them, Zachariah and Rachel stand, unsteady on their feet. Cas whirls on them, bloody silver blade still gripped in his hand. Rachel looks at Zachariah, then runs, streaking towards the ocean, shifting into a silver-gray shape as she hits the water.

Zachariah snarls at them. “You can’t hide anymore, Castiel,” he says. “We know you’re alive. You’re a thorn in our side, and Lucifer will end you one way or another.”

“Then he can come do it himself, instead of sending you cowards,” Cas snarls back. Dean’s never heard him sound so threatening before.

Zachariah growls and then runs back towards the waves, turning into a silver-gray blur as he swims off. Castiel watches him go for a moment, dropping the blade to the ground as he kneels next to the fallen body of Uriel. He bows his head, his shoulders hunching forward as he closes Uriel’s unseeing eyes, murmuring a soft, “I’m sorry, brother.”

And then he stiffens, cocking his head to the side, and Dean watches as his fingers draw what looks like a silver-gray sheet from underneath Uriel. It undulates softly in the breeze, and Dean realizes it’s not a sheet; it’s a hide. When Cas touches it, his eyes glow with a soft blue light, and he sucks in a surprised breath, audible even over the sound of the ocean.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice sounds small to his own ears, confusion crawling up his throat even as his ankle feels like someone set a small fire inside of it. His jaw aches as well; he’s gonna have an impressive bruise there tomorrow, he can tell.

Cas turns towards Dean, eyes wide, then scrambles over to him, bringing the hide with him. “Dean, are you okay?” he asks, hands trembling but not touching him. “Are you hurt?”

“Yeah, but -- I mean, what the hell was that? What’s going on?” Dean says. “Were those _selkies_? Why were they trying to kill you?”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t -- I don’t know if I can explain. My head is… it feels all jumbled up right now. But I think --” he pauses, looking at Dean’s ankle, which has swollen to the size of a tennis ball. One hand still holding onto the hide, he reaches out with the other, placing it gently on Dean’s foot.

“Don’t touch it --” Dean starts to hiss, then gasps as an icy-hot sensation shivers through his leg and up his spine, spiking through his brain. It’s almost painful, but it disappears as quickly as it came; when Dean looks down, his ankle is no longer swollen, and there’s no pain when he flexes it, testing.

“We need to get out of here,” Cas says, offering no explanation. He stands and holds out a hand, pulling Dean up with him. “Let’s go.”

“No, hold on,” Dean demands, standing his ground. “Seriously, what the hell is going on, Cas?”

The moonlight draws sharp lines down Cas’ face as he looks at Dean. “You need to get to safety, Dean,” he says. “What Zachariah said was true. They’re going to keep coming for me, and they don’t care who they have to hurt to do it. Please, we have to go.” He holds out his hand again, plaintive.

Dean chews his bottom lip for a moment, hesitating. The Castiel standing before him isn’t the same one he went for a walk with earlier. Or is he? There’s something different to the set of his shoulders, the way he holds himself as he stands, but his eyes are still the same, the curve of his mouth and the press of his palm still familiar and right. Something has changed in him, but he’s still _Cas_.

Dean takes his hand, and they make their way quickly back to the cottage.

They don’t turn on any lights when they get back, moving through the now-familiar rooms in darkness and near-total silence. Cas drapes the silvery hide over the back of the couch; he doesn’t move far away from it, just packs his bag as efficiently as possible. Dean watches him, trepidation settling like a stone in his gut.

“What are you doing?” he asks finally. Cas looks up from where he’s putting his books back into his backpack. His face is mournful but set. Trepidation becomes fear. Dean feels nauseous.

“I have to go, Dean. I have to stop them.”

“Stop them from doing what?” Dean asks, walking around the couch to take Cas’ face in his hands. Cas steps back, though; the sting of rejection slaps across Dean’s face so hard it feels like whiplash.

“If I tell you, it’ll only put more of a target on your head.” He pauses, eyes trained on a point past Dean’s head. “Remember when you told me about all those people who showed up at the hospital, struck blind at the same time? Or when that half-shifted werewolf attacked you/”

“Yeah?” Dean says, frowning. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m trying to prevent more things like that from happening.” This time, Cas looks directly at him, gaze steely and unrelenting. “Please, Dean. Go home. Stay safe.”.

“Cas, please, just --” Dean flounders. His hands feel like they’re disconnected from his body, flopping around on his wrists. “I don’t understand. If you just tell me what you’re talking about, I could help you. I could --”

Shaking his head, Cas zips up his bag, setting it down on the couch. He picks up the silver hide, pulling it over his shoulders like a cloak. It settles awkwardly over him, a little too big, made to fit Uriel’s larger frame. Even though it looks a little strange, Cas seems to stand taller while he wears it. “The best thing you can do is forget about me,” he says. “Go home, watch out for Sam. But I have to go.”

Dean’s eyes burn, and he blinks rapidly, anger running like fire through his veins. “So that’s it?” he spits, “You’re just gonna leave?”

Cas sighs. “You can’t help me with this,” he says, “you don’t have the magic that would --” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide as he realizes what he’s said.

It feels like ice pours down the back of Dean’s spine, mixing with the anger and turning it unbearably cold. “Wow,” Dean says, voice flat. “Okay, I see how it is.” He swallows against the lump that forms suddenly in his throat, trying to keep his face from showing anything. He doesn’t think he succeeds, because Cas makes a small noise and starts to reach out to him.

“No, that’s not what I --” he says, but Dean backs up, out of reach. Cas’ hand falls back to his side. His eyes glint wetly in the sliver of light that falls across the room. Dean looks away.

There’s some rustling, and Cas says, “Goodbye, Dean,” the floorboards creaking as he goes to the back door. Dean looks up to see Cas walking across the sand, the moon slowly fading as dawn lightens the sky. A nameless terror crawls up his esophagus, and he runs after Cas, words burning up his throat and scalding his tongue, though they disappear like steam when he tries to call Cas’ name. But before he can reach him, Cas steps into the ocean, a silver-gray light engulfing him slowly, almost like it’s fighting against him.

And then Cas is gone, sinking beneath the waves. Dean stands on the shoreline, watching helplessly as the sun rises behind him, turning the ocean into glittering flames.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean looks up as a plate with a cheeseburger and a small mountain of fries is placed in front of him, catching Benny’s frown as the vampire slides across the booth from him. “Still ain’t heard from him?” Benny asks, sliding ketchup and vinegar bottles across the table to Dean as well.

Dean huffs but splashes the vinegar on his fries, shaking his head. “Told ya, I don’t think I’m going to be hearing from Cas any time soon, Benny. I don’t think he’s, uh, really thinking about me these days.”

“I don’t believe that for one second.” Benny folds his arms on the table and leans across towards Dean. “I saw the way he looked at you, brother, every time you two sat in this booth. You’re more important to him than you realize.”

Dean gives him a strained smile, biting into a salty fry. The sharp taste of vinegar explodes across his tongue, a fitting counterpoint. “Guess you need to get your eyes checked,” he jokes, bitter and acrid. “‘Cause I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s been a month at this point, and everything’s been radio silent.” Which made sense, since Cas was probably too busy somewhere in the middle of the ocean to whip out his phone and call or text Dean.

Would he even have service in the middle of the ocean? Does his phone even work still? Dean isn’t sure how selkie transformation works -- if Cas had his phone in his pocket when he walked out into the waves, did it just fritz out completely, or was it protected by the transformation somehow? He chews on a bite of the burger, thinking hard. Tries to ignore the increasingly concerned look on Benny’s face.

Dean hasn’t told anyone about the whole _selkie_ thing yet, figures that would be an incredibly shitty thing to do to Cas, even though he’d essentially been dumped and left behind. When people asked about Cas, Dean told them that he’d just up and left in the middle of the night with no explanation. Made for a lot of pitying glances, but at least no one kept pressing him for more details that he couldn’t give without accidentally letting the whole “Oh yeah, my ex-boyfriend is a mythical creature” thing slip.

Also, who the hell would even believe him? Other than Sam, maybe, and that was a whole can of worms that Dean didn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole. He’d seen Sam once, right when he got back and was a huge nervous mess from the flight; Sam had picked him up from the airport, but he had been so afraid that Sam was about to fall asleep at the wheel that he’d demanded to drive instead. Sam had frowned at him sleepily, asked something about Cas, and then just nodded and fallen asleep when Dean had grunted out a gruff, “Gone. Don’t wanna talk about it.”

He should probably be more concerned that Sam is apparently so exhausted that he can’t keep up his younger brother duties of annoying Dean into talking about his feelings, but mostly he’s just grateful. And also maybe a little hypocritical, since all he’s done since coming back from the beach is throw himself into work. He’s still worried about Sam, obviously, but it’s hard to think about the dark bags under his brother’s eyes and his hollowed out cheeks when he’s focused on saving a crashing patient, or collapsed on his bed in a dreamless, too-brief sleep. In his non-existent downtime, he’s taken to reading stories about selkies, combing through folktales and bullshit research papers for any information that might help him, though he’s not sure with what. Does he want to find Cas? He doesn’t know. But he can’t stop.

Every story he reads about seal-maidens being forced to live on land by spouses who hide their skins away makes him feel sick. Dean obviously didn’t take Cas’ seal-skin, but he wonders if that’s how Cas secretly felt while living with him: trapped and powerless, unable to escape and wanting to return to a life that he may not have remembered but longed for. Cas had told Dean that he was happy, but that could have been a lie; no wonder he leapt back into the ocean as soon as he was able. Dean was a poor consolation prize compared to the complete freedom of the sea.

“Earth to Dean,” Benny says, breaking Dean out of his spiraling thoughts. He realizes he’s still holding the burger, which has been dripping grease and ketchup onto the plate for long enough that a small puddle has formed. Benny’s eyes are soft when Dean looks back up at him. “I’m worried about you, brother. Whatever I can do to help, let me know, okay? But I think you should hold out hope for a little bit longer. From what I saw, Cas wouldn’t have left without a damn good reason, and I don’t think he’ll stay gone for longer than he has to.”

“Since when did you turn into his biggest cheerleader?” Dean raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Thought the two of you weren’t exactly the best of friends, unless you guys were having burger dates behind my back or something.”

Benny gives him a flat look. “Cas and I may not have always been simpatico, but he made you happy. Happier than I’ve seen you in a long time, honestly. The two of you… you just make sense. He’ll be back.” He snags a fry off of Dean’s plate for himself, smirking a little bit. “But you should definitely make him grovel when he returns. Maybe tell him to bake you an apology pie.”

“Only if he can use your kitchen. Last time he tried to use our oven, he set off the fire alarm and the whole building had to evacuate.”

“He ain’t coming anywhere near my kitchen,” Benny swears.

It’s Dean’s turn to smirk, but it feels lackluster, and he looks back down at his half-eaten burger. “I just… every day that goes on, I lose a little more hope that he’s coming back,” he admits. There’s been a sharp pain just behind his ribs ever since he came back home alone; he’s been ignoring it with work and worrying about Sam, but it’s always there, waiting for moments like this. Right now it feels like the edges of a ragged hole punched in his chest that will never close over. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he finishes lamely.

“Just take it one day at a time, brother,” Benny says, and he gives Dean an encouraging smile. “And whenever you need a burger and an ear, well, you know where to find me.”

Dean gives him a wan smile in response. He knows Benny means it; even when they broke up, Benny never withheld his friendship, has always offered himself as a rock for Dean to lean on. But Dean can’t tell him the whole story this time, and so Benny’s optimism is sincere but misplaced.

“Thanks, man,” he says anyway. “I’ve gotta head out, I told one of my coworkers I’d pick up her shift this afternoon.”

“Whoa, hold on there,” Benny says with a frown. “You haven’t finished eating yet. Something not right with my cooking today?

Dean looks down at his half-eaten burger, still hot and steaming on the plate, surrounded by Benny’s perfectly crisp fries. His stomach feels leaden. The thought of trying to eat anymore makes him want to puke a little bit. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “I’m just not super hungry at the moment. Think I might’ve eaten a little too much for breakfast.” Lie. “I’ll eat two burgers the next time I’m here, to make up for this one.” Another lie.

Benny doesn’t look convinced, but he nods and stands up, reaching out to grip Dean’s shoulder in a solid, comforting grip. “Don’t work yourself to the bone,” he says, shaking Dean slightly.

“No promises,” Dean tries to joke. “See you later, man.”

“I’m holding you to that, Winchester.”

Dean waves over his shoulder as he walks out of the diner, the door jingling loudly as it shuts behind him. The cold winds of late autumn sweep down the street, making him flip up the collar of his jacket around his neck. He runs a hand down his face, exhaustion making a home for itself in the space behind his eyes. They burn and prickle slightly in the chilly air and he blinks rapidly to stop himself from tearing up.

He cried a couple times, during the first week back, when he was alone and staring at his phone, wrestling between the impulse to call Cas over and over again or waiting for the screen to light up with Cas’ name. He’s done crying. It didn’t do shit.

The wind cuts out as he slides into Baby, the engine turning over with a growl as he starts her up. He doesn’t turn on the radio.

The shift he’s picking up isn’t until later, so he drives to the store to get a case of beer and a handle of whiskey. After tonight he’ll be off work for the next few days, thanks to the nurse supervisor refusing to schedule him for anything, and he finished the last of his alcohol last night after getting home from another shift. So he needs to replenish his stock. The thought of being sober for more than 24 hours, with no other distractions, is untenable.

He just wants to work. He just wants to be useful.

It’s the same clerk working as the last three times he’s been there, but fortunately she doesn’t say anything to him, just rings up the bottle of Jack and puts it in a bag. There’s no one else in the store, which Dean guesses is pretty common for two in the afternoon on a Tuesday. God, he can’t wait to crack into this bottle when he gets back from work later. If he’s lucky, he’ll drink enough to sleep through most of his unwanted vacation. He leaves it on the counter in the kitchen, ready and waiting.

***

Another two weeks slip by in a haze of work, sleep, and alcohol. Charlie calls him at one point, offering up her services to track down Cas, but Dean declines. Cas made it clear that Dean couldn’t do anything to help with whatever is going on, so what would be the point? He’ll get over it eventually. Hopefully.

She also offers to come over and marathon some bad horror movies and eat a lot of ice cream, and for a moment it’s _so_ tempting, but then Dean remembers the last bad horror movie he watched, and what happened afterwards, and how he’s never going to feel Cas’ arms around him again like he did for the first time that night, and he feels like he’s about to puke.

“Dean,” she says, tone clearly worried, and Dean forces some cheer into his tone.

“Let’s do a rain check on that, maybe,” he says, fishing around for a better excuse than just ‘I’m a sad pathetic sack of shit and I don’t want you to see that.’ His eyes alight on a large blue post-it note covered in his messy scrawl, Sam’s name underlined three times. His brain spits back a half-drunk memory at him of a text that he’d received most of the way through last night’s round of heavy consumption. “I’m actually supposed to help Sam and Rowena with some stuff at their office later today.”

“Well, at least you’re seeing someone,” Charlie responds, though she sounds a little hesitant. “I know things have been weird between you and Sam, though. Seriously, I can come run interference if you want. It’s been a while since we’ve hung out, man. Also I can’t remember the last time I saw Sam.”

“You just want any chance you can get to flirt with Rowena.”

“Don’t salt my game, Winchester. And it’s still a serious offer, even if there _is_ an incentive in it for me.”

Dean lets out a tired chuckle, the first time he’s laughed in days. Charlie’s always been able to get him to do that. “It’s fine, Charlie. I’m too tired to get into another fight with Sam anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s something we’re gonna have a chat about soon, too,” she threatens.

“Add it to the list.”

A sigh comes down the line. “Seriously, Dean.”

Dean gnaws on his lower lip, guilt pooling in his stomach. He knows the exact look of disappointment and worry that’s probably clouding Charlie’s face right now, and he hates that he’s the cause of it. “We’ll hang out soon, I swear,” he says, trying to assuage both of them. “When I’m not as busy.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she says. “And seriously, if you change your mind about looking for Cas--”

“I won’t,” Dean snaps, regretting it a moment too late.

There’s silence on the other end of the line. Charlie says, “Okay, Dean. I’ll talk to you later,” and her voice is soft and tired, and Dean closes his eyes, but takes the out, because he’s weak and awful like that.

“See you soon, red,” he says, and tries to convey the promise implied in that statement. He’s not sure Charlie believes him. He’s not sure he believes himself.

Charlie ends the call, and Dean lowers his phone with his own sigh, hand clenched painfully around it. He stands like that for a beat, then two, staring at the wall and trying to push down on the guilt and self-hatred rising like bile up his throat.

His phone vibrates in his hand, snapping him out of his haze, and he looks back down at it. Sam’s name flashes across the screen.

_dude you coming today or what?_ he asks, and Dean can practically hear the bitchy tone through the text.

_omw_ he sends back, grabbing his wallet and keys to walk out the door. It’s late in the afternoon, the sun already starting to sink towards the horizon as winter makes its slow creep through the seasons; no wonder Sam sent him a pissy text. He probably thought Dean would show up right after lunch or something.

The sky is filled with gunmetal gray clouds by the time Dean makes it over to Rowena’s office, parking on the street and tugging his collar up against the sharp wind that’s started since he left his apartment. Maybe an early winter storm is on its way. Dean glances up nervously. If it snows, he’s screwed. Baby isn’t the best on snow and ice, and normally he changes out her tires if he has to drive her in winter weather.

At least Sam opens the door quickly when Dean knocks, bitchface firmly in place on his pale and haggard face. The circles under his eyes look like permanent bruises at this point, and Dean can practically see his pulse fluttering rapidly in his neck. There’s a length of gauze wrapped around his left pointer finger, like he cut it recently. Dean feels like he should express some sort of surprise over how drastically Sam’s appearance has changed for the worse in just a month and a half since he last saw him, but it’s hard to drag up the energy to do so. “Heya, Sammy,” he says instead, shouldering his way inside and out of the cold, “you look like shit.”

“What else is new,” Sam rolls his eyes. “And takes one to know one. You and your razor not getting along? Looking a little patchy there.”

“Whatever.” Dean grimaces, running a hand over his cheeks. Okay, yeah, he’s more stubbly than he normally goes for, but his hand had been pretty shaky when he shaved this morning. Small victories that any part of his face is shaved, honestly. “Why am I here?”

Sam sighs, “I’ll show you,” and heads back towards the workshop, limping faintly. Dean follows him automatically, glancing at the firmly closed door to Rowena’s private office for a moment. There’s a faint purple light emanating from underneath the door frame, but Sam pays no heed to it, so Dean ignores it as well.

Inside the workshop, Sam leads him to the alcove where the modified monitor Dean had set up sits, a comfortable chair now adjacent to it. The monitor is on, but the display looks like it’s fritzing out, the multicolored lines for heart rate, oxygen levels, and the rest appearing jagged and cut off as they run across the screen. The small secondary screen, the one Rowena had installed specially, is completely blank, although it seems to pulse with a dull gray glow every few seconds.

“What’s going on here?” Dean asks, frowning as he moves towards the monitor, running his hands along the plastic casing to see if there’s any physical damage. Nothing immediately jumps out at him, and he glances at Sam, who is picking up the end of the pulse oximeter and holding it out to Dean.

His jaw drops. The oximeter looks _charred_ , like someone stuck a piece of metal into it and ran a lightning bolt through it. The clip is entirely black and blasted out and the plastic around it looks slightly melted and bent. “Dude, what the hell happened?” he finally says, taking the device and examining it more closely. The inside is totally warped and unusable, nothing but melted lumps of metal and charcoal, basically. He shakes it next to his ear and hears something rattle loosely inside.

Sam shuffles next to him. “There was -- was some kind of power surge, I think. I dunno. And then, well.” He gestures at the monitor. “This started happening.”

Dean frowns, looking between the destroyed oximeter and the monitor. “A power surge?” he asks, moving around the oximeter to take a look at the outlet he’d plugged the machine into weeks ago. The outlet looks fine: no black streaks, no charring, not even a hint of melted plastic or lingering static electricity. “Did you stick a live wire into the oximeter and blast it or something? Because normally power surges come from outlets, not the other way around.”

Sam tries to hide it, but Dean sees the split-second guilty grimace on his face. “I dunno, Dean,” he repeats, shrugging and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “This shit started happening and I figured I’d call you to see if you had any tips on how to fix it or whatever. I didn’t know if you’d seen something like this before, like with a patient shorting it out with magic or something --” His eyes go wide, and he shuts his mouth quickly, but it’s too late.

“Wait, did _you_ do this?” Dean asks, dropping the oximeter and marching over to his brother, grasping Sam’s arm and pulling his left hand out of his pocket before he can stop him. He tugs carefully at the very bottom of the bandage wrapped around Sam’s finger, lifting it up.

Blackened flesh peeks out at him, and Dean drops Sam’s hand like _he’s_ the one who’s been burned. Sam steps back, holding his hand protectively against his chest, and for a moment all Dean can see is a five-year-old who got caught in the cookie jar.

He wishes it were that simple.

“It’s not that bad,” Sam is saying, and Dean feels like his brain is underwater, everything a little fuzzy and out of focus as he looks between his brother and the modified monitor, and suddenly it all slots into place.

“You --” he starts, tripping over his own tongue. “Was this… was this _you_? Sam, what have you been _doing_? It looks like you tried to shove a bolt of lightning into this machine -- whatever magic you shot through here, your body isn’t capable of handling that sort of power!”

Sam scowls, putting on his stubborn face. “Clearly I am capable of handling it,” he snaps, standing up straighter. “Rowena and I are both capable of handling it, actually. It’s not a bad thing to push your limits, Dean! It’s been fine this whole time, I swear. This was just -- just a fluke. Rowena handled the same amount of power right before me. I’m just not quite… at the same level yet. But I’ll get there.”

“You look like you’re about to collapse, man!” Dean exclaims, moving towards his brother because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Is that the plan? To keep going until you can’t anymore?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“But why!”

“Because I can change the world, Dean!” Sam shakes his head like a dog throwing off water, agitated. His eyes are feverishly bright in his pale and drawn face. “The work we’re doing could open doors and unlock mysteries, and figuring out how much power we’re capable of channeling is the first step. The experiments Rowena and I have been doing, they’ve taught us so much --”

“It’s _killing_ you, Sam!” Dean shouts, because it’s true: this is a shell of his little brother standing in front of him, like the life is being slowly drained from him. He takes a deep breath, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You’re lying to yourself, man. I just want you to be okay. I know you’d want the same thing for me. And this, what you’re doing… it ain’t worth your life.”

“Don’t you get it?” Sam asks, his eyes fever-bright in his pale face. “It’s not gonna _be_ worth my life, because it’ll be fine. I’ll be fine, I swear. I’m strong, Dean, and I’m getting stronger. I know you can’t wrap your head around it, but maybe one day you’ll understand. Rowena and I… we’re the only ones who can do this.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Yeah? Is that what you think? You two are the only witches who can take on this kind of power? Who can fix the world, or whatever?”

Sam hesitates, eyes darting to the side before he looks back at Dean. “For now, at least, yeah. I do. But what we’re doing, it’ll pave the way for so much more.” He sucks in a breath, his stance hardening. “I’m being practical here. I’m doing what needs to be done. Just, please. I just need you to trust me.”

There’s an exhausted pounding starting at the base of Dean’s skull, his brother’s words burrowing deep under his skin. He knows Sam means every word of what he’s saying, and that… that might make it worse. Because it means that he’s convinced himself this quest for power will have a good ending, when he should know from experience that’s not true.

“Let me help you,” he begs, trying to switch tactics, because maybe this way he can convince Sam to step away, to realize the true implications of what he’s doing. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? How about that? Just… just step away from the magic for a bit, Sammy.”

Sam shakes his head, jaw set. “No, Dean,” he says. “You can’t help with this.” His tone is final, resolute.

“Why not?”

Dean watches as, for just another second, his brother hesitates and then comes to a decision. And he knows he’s lost this fight, no matter what else he says. Because Sam believes in what he’s saying, and nothing Dean can say will change his mind.

And then his little brother opens his mouth and says, “Because you don’t have the power; you’re not strong enough. This isn’t up to you. So either help me fix this, or leave. It’s your choice. But I’m not going to stop. There’s too much at stake.”

Dean stiffens, all the breath rushing out of his body like he’s just been punched. Because Sam may have carelessly mentioned Dean’s magical deficiencies in the past, but he never implied that he thought Dean was _lacking_. Yeah, Dean’s known for most of his life that to the rest of his family, he’s broken -- he just didn’t think he’d get confirmation from his own brother.

And after Cas’ last words to him, right before he disappeared? Dean knows that sometimes you just have to face the music. It’s pretty clear where he sits on the totem pole.

He shakes his head. “Right,” he says, struggling to keep his tone even. “You can couch it in as much idealism as you want, but I know you, Sam. There may not be any drugs this time around, but you’re still chasing that high. And I can’t watch while you kill yourself for it.” He starts to walk to the workshop entrance, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide how badly they’re shaking.

“You don’t know me,” Sam says to his back, voice seething. “You think I’m just some stupid junkie. Fine. We’ll see if I accept your apology when you figure out I’m right.”

Dean doesn’t respond. A couple of glass bottles holding spell ingredients on a worktable shatter as he passes with a sharp breaking sound; he flinches, hard, but keeps going. He can’t look back now. If he does… if he does, he’ll shatter, too.

He can hear more glass exploding as he walks back down the hallway to the front door. The sky is still covered in gunmetal gray clouds.

Dean gets into Baby and drives away.

***

Two more weeks and Dean thinks that maybe this is what going crazy feels like.

He’s ignored dozens of phone calls from friends at this point. Charlie is about three seconds away from blowing up his phone with her unanswered text messages. Even Benny, who barely even turns his phone on, has called Dean half a dozen times at least. Dean’s let them all go straight to voicemail.

The only reason he leaves his apartment is to go to work. He’s still taking as many shifts as he can, but he can feel the exhaustion creeping through his bones, wearing him down from the inside out. He won’t be able to keep this up much longer.

His next shift ends close to midnight, and he walks out of the hospital doors onto the silent street. The moon is high in the sky, cold and distant, clouds striated across its face that are beginning to release slow, wispy flakes of snow that melt almost as soon as they touch the ground. It’s a little early for the first snow of the season, but Dean just pulls up the collar of his coat and shuffles to the Impala, eager to collapse into bed as soon as possible.

When he gets home, the door is unlocked. Dean frowns down at the keys in his hand, wondering if he’d forgotten to lock up as he’d left earlier. There’s no sign of a forced entry: no kicked in frame, no dents or holes in the solid door.

He pushes the door open, the short hallway dark and quiet in front of him. He can’t hear anything from further inside the apartment, and nothing seems to be broken or stolen.

Well, if there’s someone waiting inside to murder him, then at least they’re being polite about it. Or maybe he did just forget to lock his door when he left for work. He can barely remember driving home; he sure as hell can’t remember what he did just a few hours ago.

He walks down the hall to the living room, the dark shapes of the furniture barely visible. And then a light flicks on.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, sitting on the couch. He turns to face Dean, his eyes intense and dark in the play of shadows across the room. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s fingers go numb, and his keys drop to the floor with a harsh clash that jangles across his nerves. Hope rises like an inferno in his chest before being doused just as quickly. Because Cas is… Cas is _here_. Cas is sitting on his couch wearing a dark suit and tie under a rumpled tan trenchcoat, like he didn’t used to _live here_ , like he hasn’t spent hours sprawled out in a t-shirt and sweatpants, watching bad TV with his head in Dean’s lap. Like he doesn’t want to be here now, facing Dean for the first time in over two months. Like this is something he _has_ to do, instead of wanting to.

“How did you get in here?” Dean asks, and immediately wants to shoot himself in the foot for the way his voice sounds creaky, desperate.

Cas at least has the decency to look chagrined, but he holds up a familiar key. “You never changed the locks,” he says simply.

Right, Dean realizes. That should’ve… he probably should’ve done that as soon as he got home from their disastrous trip. Except he’d been too consumed by a sort of paralyzing numbness to do anything other than stare at his phone, hoping against hope that Cas would call, or text, or _something_. And then he’d been too busy worrying about Sam, and losing himself in work, and drinking in between to think about anything else. Everything had just slipped through the cracks.

“Why are you here?” he croaks, eyes flitting across Cas, taking as much of him in as he can in the low lighting. Cas looks whole and unharmed and as devastatingly handsome as ever, but Dean can see the exhaustion tucked into the lines around his eyes, the tension carried in the corners of his mouth. “Thought you were off doing selkie shit, or whatever. Important stuff.”

Cas sighs and shifts, gesturing for Dean to join him on the couch. “This is part of the important stuff,” he says, “It’s part of the reason why you found me in an alley here, all those months ago, beaten and left for dead.”

Dean stares at him, very seriously considering just going into his bedroom and locking his door, falling asleep until Cas leaves again. Because Cas _is_ going to leave again, he knows. Nothing about Cas’ expression makes him believe otherwise. Dean would save himself a lot of trouble if he just ignored him.

“Please, Dean,” Cas pleads softly, eyes round and plaintive. And, just like every other time Cas asks, Dean breaks and sits down, keeping as much space between them on the couch as possible.

“Alright, spit it out,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “What’s this about?”

Cas clasps his large hands together in his lap, leaning forward. “You have to stop Sam and Rowena,” he says, his voice urgent. “The things they’re working on, the person they’re working for -- you have to stop them. There will be dire consequences otherwise.”

Dean frowns, feeling like a bucket of ice water has just been dropped down his spine. “Dire for who?” he asks.

“Everyone.” Cas looks at him, his brows drawn down, mouth taut. “The only reason you found me in that alley was because I was trying to stop Sam and Rowena before they ever started, but I was… discovered. I was beaten and left for dead, stripped of my sealskin and my memory.” He takes a breath, shaking his head. “How ironic that almost the very next day, you took me to where I had been trying to go, but I couldn’t remember. That I was so close for so many months. And now, it’s almost too late. I’ve regained my memory, but my skin… my true skin is still lost. I’m making do, but it’s not enough.”

Dean can feel his heart beating in his throat, his breaths coming more and more shallow as he tries to piece together what Cas isn’t telling him. _Dire consequences_ rings through his head, and he sees Sam’s pale, sunken face in his mind’s eye, a magic he can’t control consuming him from the inside out. “What happens if I can’t stop them?”

Cas grimaces. “I don’t know,” he says.

“But you said there would be consequences.”

“Yes, there will be. But I don’t know exactly what they are. So you have to stop them. Now.”

“Why me?” Dean gestures between them helplessly. “Sam and I… got into it pretty bad recently. He won’t listen to me. And -- and I don’t even know what’s going on, not really, so unless you wanna let me in on whatever has your selkie pants all bunched up --”

“I can’t, Dean,” Cas says, looking stricken. “I don’t -- it’s hard enough asking you to do this. I would give anything to keep you out of this whole thing, to keep you safe. But you’re the best chance I have to get Sam and Rowena to stop their research. They’ll listen to you.”

Dean laughs bitterly at that, and confusion flits across Cas’ face. “Sam’s too far gone, man,” he says, swallowing around the lump that appears in his throat.

“He’s your brother, Dean. And he’s a good man. He’ll do the right thing if you ask him to.”

And Cas looks so earnest, looks like he _believes_ in Dean so much that Dean has to look away. “I ain’t the right guy for this, Cas,” he mutters to his shoulder, blinking against his stinging eyes. “You said so yourself when you walked into that water.”

“Dean…”

He hears the soft shuffle of cloth, and then Cas’ hand is grasping one of his, large and warm, callused in all the same spots that Dean remembers. He looks up in surprise to find Cas’ face much closer than before, and it’s a dizzying moment of déjà vu, staring into the depths of those endless blue eyes, now weighted down with burdens and memories that Dean doesn’t know. Maybe he’ll never know. Maybe the man -- selkie, technically -- sitting before him is a stranger, distant and unknowable. Maybe Dean never really knew him at all.

He still loves him, no matter who Cas is.

At that realization, Dean leans forward, kissing Cas, interrupting whatever he’s about to say, focusing on Cas’ lips soft and warm beneath his own. Two first kisses on this couch, only this time there’s an undercurrent of desperation, of despair. The déjà vu intensifies as Cas makes the same low, soft noise he made the first time Dean kissed him, bringing a hand up to cup his face as the kiss deepens. And it’s probably a bad idea to be doing this; actually, scratch that, it’s the _worst_ idea to be kissing Cas right now, after Cas left him behind, after Cas showed up at his apartment spouting cryptic messages of dire consequences, but Dean doesn’t really give a shit right now. Because he has his hands buried in Cas’ hair, Cas’ stubble scratching against his cheek, and after two months of thinking he’d never get to have this again, it’s like drinking water after walking through the desert.

Cas fists a hand in the front of Dean’s scrubs, pulls him forward on the couch, and Dean isn’t resisting but his mouth goes dry at the reminder of how strong Cas is, and suddenly he doesn’t want to be on the couch anymore, wants to be someplace where they can be closer, where they can stretch out and relearn one another. He breaks the kiss, heart beating wildly as Cas attempts to follow him, chasing his lips.

“Wait,” he croaks out, pressing a hand to Cas’ chest, swears he can feel Cas’ heartbeat underneath his palm. “Not here.” He swallows painfully, licks his lips, watches the way Cas’ eyes follow the movement of his tongue. “Bed?”

Cas nods, standing up and holding out a hand to Dean, lifting him off the couch when Dean takes it. They walk down the dark, quiet hall to Dean’s (their) room, shedding their clothes inside the door. Cas puts his hands on Dean’s waist, kissing him as he pushes him down onto the bed, sliding on top of him as the mattress creaks under their weight.

They kiss for what feels like hours, until Dean’s lips feel blurry and wet, his hands running up and down Cas’ sides. Cas kisses up the length of Dean’s neck, sucks a mark behind his ear, rolls his hips down against Dean’s, pressing the lengths of their cocks together. Dean moans, tipping his head back against the pillows, skimming his fingers up Cas’ dick before wrapping his hand around him, and Cas groans against his collarbone, filthy and melodic. He shifts again, pressing his hips more firmly between Dean’s thighs, creating a space for himself as he leans up and digs through the bedside table for the lube kept there.

Cas’ hand wraps around both of them like a revelation, slick and hot, knocking Dean’s own hand away and making him arch beneath Cas’ weight. He breathes out Cas’ name, a whine caught in his throat as Cas strokes them and noses at the dip of Dean’s clavicle.

He feels like he’s about to crawl out of his skin but Cas keeps the pace of his hand slow and easy, and Dean curses and moans beneath him, pulling at the sheets. “Please, Cas,” he gasps, heat rising like a tide inside him. He needs more; he needs _Cas_ , and Cas seems to realize this, leaning back to add more lube to his hand before pressing a finger against Dean, cool and slick as he slips inside. Dean gasps like he’s been shocked, but Cas eases him through it, shifting inside of Dean like he’s memorizing him from the inside out.

He keeps the pace slow and easy, adding another two fingers one at a time, stretching Dean open and curling them against his prostate in an irregular rhythm that has Dean panting and twisting beneath him. He murmurs Dean’s name over and over again, voice low and throaty, eyes half-lidded but bright, watching.

By the time he slips his fingers out, Dean is wet and open, his chest and face red with exertion. The head of Cas’ dick tags against him as Cas uses one hand to guide himself inside, sliding in with one long, slick motion, and Dean bites his lower lip against the shout that threatens to escape. Cas rumbles somewhere deep in his chest, his hands slipping into Dean’s, twining their fingers together and stretching Dean’s arms over his head, pressing them back against the mattress, effectively trapping Dean beneath his weight with next to no leverage. Impossibly, he slides even deeper into Dean, and Dean makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Cas stays there for a moment, until Dean is twisting and begging him to move, trying to push back against him. Only then does Cas shift his hips, driving back into Dean and making them both groan, loud. Dean brings his legs up around Cas’ hips, the only way he can hold on as Cas holds his hands in a bruisingly tight grip. It takes him a minute to work out a rhythm, but when he does, it’s perfect: just on the right side of hard and fast, and Dean knows he’s going to feel it in the morning.

Heat curls in his gut, zips down his spine as Cas moves over and inside of him, and Dean can’t really do much except let Cas fuck him in this position: he tries to lift his hips up every time Cas thrusts back into him, squeezes Cas’ hands with his own. The bed creaks and shakes beneath them, Cas’ breath hot against his face, eyes locked on one another. Cas feels huge, splitting Dean open and laying him bare with his cock, and Dean can’t take it anymore, closing his eyes as comes with a sigh, streaks of white landing on his torso as Cas fucks him through it, snapping his hips over and over.

When Cas comes, it’s with a groan of Dean’s name, and Dean can feel it hot and wet, filling him up like fire. Cas leans down and sucks a bruise into the thin skin over his pulse, stubble scraping over the tender flesh, marking him. When he’s finished, he carefully pulls out and leans down to kiss Dean, disentangling their fingers gently.

The kiss tastes salty, and Dean wonders for a moment if this is how Cas tastes now, like the sea. But then he realizes no: he’s crying, silent tears running down his cheeks and mingling with their lips as he flexes his stiff fingers above his head.

Cas makes to sit up, but Dean’s arms shoot out, aching hands latching onto Cas’ back and drawing him back down. _Don’t go_ , he wants to say, _not again_ , but his mouth won’t form the words. Cas seems to understand, though, laying back down beside Dean and gathering him into his arms. He presses his lips to Dean’s sweaty temple, warm and familiar.

Exhaustion sweeps over Dean and pulls him into sleep before he even realizes what’s happening. The last thought he has before drifting off is that he should tell Cas he loves him.

***

Dean wakes to the gray light of an early winter day. There’s a sticky mess still on his belly; the spot where Cas had been laying next to him has long since gone cold.

On the pillow is a note, ripped from a nearby pad of paper. Cas’ blocky handwriting outlines a stark, two word message, underlined heavily.

_ Stop Sam. _


	8. Chapter 8

“C’mon, c’mon,” Dean mutters, listening to his phone ring as he white knuckles the wheel of the Impala, driving with just one hand. The tires squeal as he takes a turn a little too fast, gunning the engine after a moment of fishtailing. 

The ringing cuts out, replaced by Sam’s cheerful voice. “Sorry, but I can’t come to the phone right now! Please --”

“Goddammit,” Dean snaps, ending the call and flinging his phone down onto the seat next to him. He’s tried to call Sam over a dozen times in the past twenty minutes, and has left three different voicemails; even with Sam ignoring his existence, he would’ve picked up after the third consecutive call. They always did, in case it was an emergency.

“You’d better be fucking passed out at your desk,” he growls to the air, brows drawn low as he navigates the streets to Rowena’s office. Post-rush hour there aren’t many cars on the road with him, but he blows past a couple of minivans that are making the mistake of actually driving the speed limit. 

As soon as he parks, he can tell something’s wrong. The front door to the office hangs open ever-so-slightly, a security risk that Rowena would never allow to happen on her watch. His stomach cramps with anxiety as he rushes over and slips inside, blinking as his eyes adjust to the dark-paneled hallway. The place is a mess: papers strewn about the corridor, the long, luxurious rug bunched up and dragged from its normal spot on the floor, the doors to Rowena’s personal office and the workroom both flung wide. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat as he spots a few thin streaks of blood on the walls. 

He rushes down the hall, stumbling into Rowena’s office, hoping against hope that someone is in there. Maybe this was a robbery, and she and Sam were knocked out, which is why Sam isn’t answering his phone. 

The office is even messier than the hallway. Papers coat the ground so thickly that Dean can’t even see the floorboards or the ornate carpet, and spell ingredient containers have been knocked over, spilling thistle and bone shard and wood ash and other shit all over the place. A half-finished spell sits on top of Rowena’s desk, carefully drawn chalk lines smudged and messed up around a thick stone mortar. There’s blood, too, splashed across the desk. Half a bloody handprint that devolves into streaks, like someone had been dragged away. 

He doesn’t do much more than stick his head into the workroom, finding it just as messy and destroyed as Rowena’s office. Glass shards litter the ground like stars, twinkling through paper and crushed cabinets and spell ingredients. The medical monitor still sits in the back, the screens both smashed and dark. 

“Sam? Rowena?” Dean shouts, voice harsh in the conspicuous silence of the ruined office. “Sam! Sammy!” 

There’s no answer.

Desperate, he takes out his phone and calls Sam again, listening closely for Sam’s ringtone. If he still has his phone, then there’s still a chance… 

Nothing breaks the silence, and the call goes to voicemail once more. Dean hangs up and quickly calls Charlie instead, pacing back and forth in the ruined workroom, glass crunching underfoot. 

She picks up in two rings. “This had better be you calling to apologize for ignoring me,” she starts, tone light but firm.

Dean cuts her off. “Charlie, I need your help. Please. Sam’s missing, Rowena too, and I think they were taken, but I don’t know where they went. Can you track Sam’s phone? I think he still has it, I’ve been calling him over and over again and it just goes straight to voicemail.”

“Wait, what? What do you mean, they’ve been taken? Taken by who?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think maybe by whoever they’ve been working for. Cas came by last night, and he told me that I had to get Sam and Rowena to stop working --”

“Hold on, you saw _Cas_ last night? Did you guys talk? Is he back?”

Dean grits his teeth, spinning around in a frustrated circle. Papers crunch and tear beneath him. “Charlie, please, we gotta focus here. We can talk about Cas after I find Sam. Please, I need you to help me here.”

There’s a shuffling sound from the other end of the line, and then Charlie says, “I’ll get a tracker up and running, but you gotta tell me what’s going on, Dean.”

“Honestly, Charlie, I don’t know much more than what I’ve already told you. I saw Cas, he said I had to get Sam and Rowena to stop what they’re working on, but Sam isn’t answering his phone and their office is a fucking mess right now. There’s some blood, and all their spell stuff is trashed, but neither of them are here, so I’m pretty sure they’ve been taken!” He can hear himself panicking more and more with every word as the gravity of the situation really hits him. God, he shouldn’t have kissed Cas last night, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep, he should’ve just gone directly to Sam and told him to stop, and maybe he and Rowena would be here and safe right now. But instead, Dean had been weak, and selfish, and now his brother was missing and it was his fucking fault.

“Hey, okay, we’ll figure it out,” Charlie promises, and he can hear her typing quickly in the background. “I’ve already got a hit on Sam’s signal. Looks like he’s somewhere just outside of Grand Junction, Colorado. Palisade, I think. About ten or eleven hours away. Seems like he’s been there maybe an hour or so, the cell towers started pinging off his phone then.” She types a bit more, keys clacking over the phone. “Come pick me up and we’ll head out together, that way I can keep tracking the signal and see if he goes anywhere else.”

Dean blows out a breath, running his hand down his face. “Charlie, you don’t have to --”

“Shut up, Winchester, and come pick me up. This isn’t a suggestion.”

A smile ticks up the corner of his mouth, unexpected. “Right. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Over and out.” The line goes dead, and Dean shoves his phone into his pocket, rushing back out to the Impala. He closes the front door behind him. Rowena and Sam will need an office to come back to, after all.

Colorado. Not too far away at least, but he’s not sure when, exactly, Sam was taken. Honestly, Dean can’t even be sure that he’s alive. But somehow, he knows his brother isn’t dead. Somehow, he can feel it.

“Keep it together, Sammy,” he mutters, gunning down the street to Charlie’s place. “I’m on my way.”

*** 

The drive to Palisade is, predictably, tense. Charlie sits in the seat next to him, tapping away at her computer and somehow getting wi-fi or data or whatever even while they drive through vast stretches of flat, empty land. She glances at him every once in a while, and Dean can tell she’s curious, wants to keep asking him questions, but his hands grip the steering wheel so tightly the leather squeaks under his fingers, eyes staring almost unblinking at the road before them. Every so often, she’ll give him an update during their ten hour journey:

“Sam’s still there. Once we get closer, I can try to pinpoint an address.”

“No movement. Looks like he’s in a more industrial area.”

“Take route 30 here instead of 285. It’ll get us around Denver faster.”

“Okay, we’re looking for 186 Davis Drive. Make a left at this light up ahead, and then the next right.”

They pull up to a nondescript concrete and metal warehouse, the kind that was obviously built to be temporary but ended up sticking around over the years. Dean parks on the street, apprehension twisting in his gut. “Stay here,” he tells Charlie. “I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come in.”

“Wait, Dean --” she protests, but Dean shakes his head, getting out of the car. His legs are stiff and awkward after so long spent driving, and there’s an ache blooming in the small of his back, but he shakes it off.

“No, this isn’t negotiable. I don’t need you getting hurt on my watch, okay? I promise to come get you as soon as I know it’s safe, got it?” He fixes her with a serious stare.

She glares right back at him. “Fine, but if you’re not out here in fifteen minutes, I’m coming in, and you can’t stop me.” Her eyes dare him to challenge her. 

“Works for me,” he says. He heads for what looks like a service door with a rusted out lock on the front. Testing the knob, he finds it unlocked, twisting easily under his hand. He frowns. Something’s not right, but he doesn’t have time to figure out what it could be. Sam is in there, and every moment Dean hesitates is another moment he could be too late. 

The door opens with a long, shrill squeal, making Dean wince. So much for any possible element of surprise. Inside is a length of thin plastic sheeting that rustles slightly, obscuring the inside of the warehouse. Dean pushes past it, listening intently as he steps into the high-ceilinged main room.

No one’s there. Just an empty warehouse with a stained and cracked concrete floor illuminated by watery fluorescent lights. There are a couple of metal folding chairs stacked against the wall to one side, where the lights don’t really reach, but that’s it. 

“Sam?” he calls, throwing caution to the wind. No answer.

Nausea wells up in him, overwhelming, and he has to stop and breathe, bending over to put his hands on his knees as he tries to get himself under control. After a moment, he straightens back up, beginning to patrol the perimeter of the warehouse. There _has_ to be something here, some sort of clue. Charlie is incredibly accurate at tracking cell signals; it would take a miracle to fool her about this. 

As he walks past the stack of metal chairs, his boot kicks something hidden by shadow, and it goes spinning across the ground, halting a couple of feet away. It’s small and rectangular, and Dean recognizes it almost immediately.

Sam’s phone, flashing 10% battery life as Dean bends down to pick it up.

Charlie chooses that moment to make her entrance, running through the plastic sheeting with an exaggerated cry, brandishing a small pocket knife and waving it around wildly. She stops, looking around as she realizes that the room is empty of any villains. 

“That was not fifteen minutes,” Dean says, and she jumps a bit as she realizes he’s standing out of the light by the wall.

Her face is definitely a little sheepish as she slips the knife into her pocket. “I got antsy. Sue me,” she says. “Did you find anything? Sam?”

Dean swallows and holds up the phone. “They must’ve realized he still had it on him. I haven’t found anything else,” he says, quiet. “Dead end, I guess. I don’t… I don’t know what else to do.” His eyes sting at the realization and he curls his hand into a fist around the phone, feeling it cut into his palm painfully. He just drove ten hours only to come up empty handed; Sam was in trouble, but once again Dean is too useless to do anything about it. 

Consistently failing everyone he cares about, the Dean Winchester story. 

“Fuck!” he shouts, throwing his head back and letting it burst up into the rafters above them, echoing through the empty warehouse. Charlie startles, eyes wide, but Dean will feel bad about that later, after the impotent anger boiling within him is gone. He grips the stupid fucking phone even tighter, some piece of him wondering if he can crush it in his hand. It’ll be just as much use as it is now.

And then the phone grows hot, almost too hot to hold. Dean gasps and loosens his grip, just as Sam’s voice begins speaking in what is clearly a hushed whisper but comes through loud and clear in Dean’s hand.

“This is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but… Dean, if you’re listening to this somehow, they’re taking us somewhere called North Cove, I think. It’s on the West Coast from what I’ve heard. I don’t know -- something about the ocean. They did something to me and Rowena --”

The message cuts off. Silence hangs in the air between the two of them for a beat, then Charlie rips out her own phone, tapping furiously. “There’s a North Cove, Washington about an eighteen hour drive from here,” she says. “Right on the beach. They’ve got a good head start on us, but we’ve got a chance.”

Dean chews on his lower lip, torn by the decision he’s about to make. “I need you to stay here,” he says, putting up a hand to stop Charlie’s immediate protests. “No, seriously. I’ll pay for you to get a room here somewhere, or to rent a car and drive home, but you can’t come with me. Because I need you to track my phone, okay? Make sure it doesn’t go anywhere crazy, but if it does, do whatever you can to get in touch with Cas and tell him the situation. Tell him I’ve gone after Sam and Rowena, but I’ve been taken, or whatever.”

Confusion slides down Charlie’s face as she frowns. “Cas? But what’s he gonna be able to do?”

“Who knows,” Dean says. “Maybe nothing. But he came to warn me about Sam and Rowena, so maybe he’ll know what to do.”

“Does he know who took them?”

“I don’t know. He said something about the person they’re working for being dangerous, so it might have something to do with that. Or maybe someone wants the information they have? I’m as much in the dark on this as you are.”

Charlie stares at him, eyes shrewd, then sighs. “There’s a piece or two I’m missing that would help make this all make sense,” she says. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else?”

Dean thinks about telling her about the selkies, about the attack on the beach, about Cas disappearing under the waves as a gray light. She deserves to know the truth about her friend. 

Cas can tell her himself.

“Sorry, red,” he says, reaching into his wallet and shoving a wad of bills at her. “If this doesn’t cover a hotel room or a car or whatever, let me know later.”

“Dude, save that for gas, you’re gonna need it.” She hugs him tight, tucking her face against his chest. “Be safe, okay? Get everyone back home.” 

Dean hugs her back, closing his eyes for just a moment before breaking the embrace. “I’ll do my best,” he promises. 

He drops her off at a local bed and breakfast before driving off, merging onto 70 and pushing the Impala as fast as she’ll reasonably go. He turns north at Green River and skirts past Salt Lake City and Ogden several hours before sunset. Stopping at a gas station in the middle of nowhere on the border of Utah and Idaho, he grabs a couple of energy drinks, popping the tab on one and grimacing at the sugary acidic taste of it as soon as he gets back in the car. 

A heady mix of fear, adrenaline, and a dangerous amount of caffeine pushes him down the road. It’s only when he nearly crashes into an oncoming truck that blares its horn at him that he forces himself to pull over and grab a couple hours of rest. It’s been a long time since he last slept in the backseat, and he wakes up with a crick in his neck that won’t go away, no matter how much he stretches. Four hours of sleep isn’t very refreshing, but it’s enough to keep him going.

The sky lightens slowly as he drives west, stopping only when he has to for gas. Mountains give way to high, dry desert, then more mountains. He drives through a brief, spattering rainstorm as he crosses into Oregon. The radio on the Impala hisses with static more often than it actually plays music, searching through the airwaves for a signal. Dean feels the same.

Sixteen hours later, he rolls down a narrow, lonely gravel road, pine trees hemming in close around Baby, some of their branches brushing along her top and sides. The sun is just beginning to pull above the horizon, painting the sky in a delicate mix of light blues and pinks as the stars blink out one by one. He smells the water before he sees it, salty in the early winter air of the Pacific Northwest. It’s familiar but cold. In the distance and across the cove, rounded mountains rise into the sky, their dull peaks just beginning to be touched by soft light. Rounding a bend, he stops just before the headlights flash across a nondescript white cabin with curtains pulled across every window. A large black Escalade sits parked out front, out of place among the trees. 

Dean backs up a bit and hides the Impala back around the bend of the road, keeping to the treeline as he approaches the cabin. A thick carpet of fallen pine needles muffles his footsteps, and he moves as quickly and silently as he can when he has to cross the gravel to go up the steps leading to the front door. 

He hesitates for a moment outside the door, wondering if he’s about to walk into a trap. This is probably in the top ten stupidest things he’s ever done. Should he have a weapon? This feels like one of those moments where a gun might actually come in handy. 

Taking a breath, he opens the door slowly, peeking inside. There’s a small entryway with a set of stairs going to the second floor of the cabin. A rustic wooden chair next to the banister has a metal briefcase sitting on it, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone actually inside. 

Dean’s heart sinks. This might be a dead end. He doesn't know where to go from here.

And then someone claps, loudly, from outside the cabin. Dean jumps, heart pounding wildly in his chest, before realizing that it hadn’t come from behind him, from where he’d come in -- there’s someone on the other side of the building. Closer to the water.

He doesn’t even think, just runs down the stairs and around the outside, flying across the rocky ground, almost stumbling over some exposed roots. Turning the corner, he sees two bodies lying on the ground, a blonde man in a well-tailored jacket kneeling over one of them, face obscured, holding a pointed silver blade to their throat. He’s chanting something that Dean can’t hear, but he would recognize the bright red locks of hair of the body under him anywhere. Rowena. And the person lying next to her -- yeah, that’s Sam. They’re both unmoving, even as the man starts to bring the blade down, clearly about to slit Rowena’s throat.

With a shout, Dean launches himself forward, tackling the man. The blade goes flying out of his grip, and Dean realizes it’s the same kind as the ones the selkies had when they attacked him and Cas on the beach. 

The two of them crash into the dirt, rolling around. Sam and Rowena don’t get up, for some reason, and Dean flicks his eyes to the side, spotting a crudely constructed altar with a silvery hide heaped on top of it along with some spell components. The hide almost seems to move a little bit, like it’s covering something alive. Maybe a spell is keeping Sam and Rowena immobile; if Dean could just get to that altar… 

Turning his attention back to the fight, Dean tries to pin the man down, but he’s preternaturally strong, flipping them over easily and getting a hand around Dean’s throat. His deep set eyes widen in surprise as he gets a good look at Dean. “I see today is a family affair,” he says, an easy chuckle escaping his mouth as he smiles. He flexes his hand, squeezing Dean’s airway shut. 

Dean’s tired, and his struggling brain is working overtime, because this man is _familiar_ , he just isn’t sure how. And then it clicks: he ran into this guy outside of Rowena’s office months ago, right after he’d set up the monitor for Sam. The one who had asked Dean about getting an appointment for some bullshit. Was _this_ who they’ve been working for this whole time?

The man -- Nick, he’d said his name was Nick -- smirks as he realizes Dean recognizes him as well. “I guess I should thank you just as much as your brother and the witch for setting all this up for me,” he says. “After all, you kept Castiel so happily distracted for me for such a long time. And you kept pushing Sam to commit himself ever deeper to the project. Honestly, Dean, I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Dean pushes on Nick’s shoulders, trying to break his hold, but the man -- he’s gotta be a selkie, like Cas -- keeps hold of him easily. Dark spots appear at the edge of his vision as he tries to draw in a breath -- who knew he’d ever have the honor of being choked out by not just one, but _two_ selkies in his life. 

Panicking, Dean does the only thing he can think of to break Nick’s grasp, and headbutts him as hard as he can. His forehead connects with Nick’s nose with a sick crunch, pain blooming behind his eyes as their skulls bash together. But it works, Nick’s fingers uncurling in surprise as he rears back, hands coming up to staunch the flow of blood now trickling from his nostrils. Dazed and gasping for air, Dean scrambles back on the ground, palms scraping against the dirt and rocks beneath him, trying to put distance between them. 

Nick pinches his nose, holding his head back for just a moment, then twists his grip, and Dean hears another horrifying crunch as Nick pushes his nose back into place. Blood still trickles down his mouth and chin, turning the feral grin on his face into a nightmarish grimace. “Feisty,” he says, advancing on Dean. “First Castiel, now you… you’re the proverbial flies in the ointment. But not for much longer.”

“I don’t give a shit about whatever you’re doing,” Dean coughs, pushing himself up to his feet. His head aches and his palms sting, and he’s so woefully underprepared for whatever’s going on here. “But I’m not leaving without my brother. Or Rowena. So if that means stopping you, then I guess that’s what I’m doing.”

Nick tilts his head, the gesture strangely reminiscent of Cas. “Whatever I’m doing? Oh, did Castiel not impart all of his wisdom unto you? Just used you as his errand boy, keeping you in the dark?” he jeers. 

Dean snarls. “Fuck off.”

“So he didn’t tell you that he knew what poor Sam here was doing to himself, and the witch too? He didn’t tell you that they’ve been working for me, getting themselves ready for today? We’re so close, Dean. We’re all so close.”

“If you’re gonna start monologuing at me, just skip it,” Dean says. “I really don’t give a shit.” He backs up slowly towards the altar, trying to maintain his distance from Nick. If he can just get next to it, he can --

Nick laughs and snaps his fingers. Suddenly, Dean can’t move, held in place by some unseen force. He strains against his restraints, but nothing happens. 

“You’re not going to ruin this for me, Dean,” Nick says, looking behind him at the altar. “Not when I’ve been waiting so long for today. Not after how hard I’ve worked. I will not be denied the power that I am owed.” He stalks forward, closing the gap between them, and lifts Dean into the air by his throat, choking him again. Dean gives a harsh, bitten-off cry as his airway is cut off once more.

A small, whimpering cry rises up into the dawn light from the altar, and Nick shushes it, holding a finger to his lips. The cry quiets immediately. “Don’t wake the baby,” he mocks, shaking Dean like a ragdoll in the air. 

Behind him, the water erupts, a silver-gray light shooting into the air and streaking towards the shore. As it hits the dirt, the light blazes and shrinks rapidly into the form of Castiel holding a silver blade, hair plastered to his head and his face locked in a fierce snarl. Maybe it’s a trick of Dean’s oxygen-starved brain, but Cas’ transformation seems easier this time around -- more fluid and natural, so very different from when Dean had watched him slowly shift using Uriel’s sealskin.

Before Nick has time to react, Cas runs up behind him and stabs the blade into his back. Nick chokes and stumbles, dropping Dean to the ground and staring down at the bloodied silver tip protruding from his chest. 

He turns to look at Cas, who shakes his head. “It’s over, Lucifer,” Cas says, and Dean reels on the ground, trying to keep up. 

Nick -- or, Lucifer, he guesses -- lets out a wet, coughing laugh. “How nice of you to show up, Castiel,” he says, baring his bloodied teeth with a grin. And then he reaches behind his back and pulls the blade out. “This makes my clean up a lot easier now that I don’t have to chase you down.”

Cas’ eyes widen in shock as everything is still for just a moment, like the calm before a storm. And then he leaps at Lucifer, striking at his arm to make him drop the blade, a flurry of movement between them as they start fighting. They fall backwards towards Dean, who rolls out of the way just in time. Lucifer stumbles over the spell altar, which wobbles and pitches to the side, spilling the silvery hide to the dirt and revealing a baby with light tufts of blonde hair, just beginning to drift awake. One of his pudgy fists extends up into the air, the other grasped tightly onto a much smaller speckled gray hide swaddled around his body.

Dean yells and tries to dive for the kid, but the larger sealskin protects him as he slides to the ground safely. The spell components spill around him, scattering across the dirt and Lucifer shouts, enraged. He rams his fist into Cas’ unprotected side, making Cas double over even as he grapples with him. Cas is strong, but Lucifer is stronger.

Lucifer throws Cas into a tree, his back colliding with the trunk with a painful crash, but he gets back up quickly, shaking his shoulders out like a boxer. He rushes forward, swinging at Lucifer, who responds with his own blows, the two of them snarling like wild animals at each other. 

Dean gets his feet under him, trying to grab the baby. He needs to get him out of here, needs to get him somewhere safe. Something has to be up with the kid, because he’s not screaming or crying or anything, just dozing calmly on the ground in his sealskin, his little eyelids fluttering occasionally. 

Just as he reaches for the child, he feels his body lock up again, held in place by the same unseen force as before. Looking up, he sees Lucifer extending a hand in his direction, his other hand wrapped around Cas’ throat, forcing him to his knees as he strangles him. Lucifer grits his teeth and flicks his outstretched hand, sending Dean flying backwards into the side of the cabin. Dean’s head rings as he slumps to the ground, his vision going blurry. He watches as Lucifer turns fully towards Cas, the hand not around his throat tensed, fingers curved like claws in the air. 

“I’m going to rip your heart out and eat it in front of you,” he growls, voice animalistic and deadly. “And I’ll make your stupid pet human watch before I kill him, too. And _then_ I’m going to finish what I started by killing the witches and the empty-sky child, and take the power that’s rightfully mine.”

Something shifts at the corner of Dean’s vision, a hint of movement that has him swiveling his head, nearly puking. Across the clearing, Sam sits up, pale and shaking, and extends his arm. Sweat is visible on his brow from the clearly immense strain he’s fighting against. 

Dean sees his mouth move but can’t hear the words, and then a jet of flame bursts from his hand, engulfing Lucifer and sending him backwards into the wreckage of the altar. Fire licks across the ground, but already Dean can tell that the spell is failing, Sam too weak to sustain it as he tries to channel enough magic.

And then Rowena struggles up as well, her own pale arm stretching out, matching Sam’s. Fire whips from her palm, as red as her hair, twisting around Lucifer in a spiraling pillar that has him howling in pain. Sam stabilizes himself, the spell growing stronger as the two of them channel it together, directing more and more flame at their captor.

Dean can barely see Lucifer now as he stumbles around, spreading flames as he goes, too disoriented to run for the water that is both so close and too far away at the same time. He falls to his knees, an agonized scream tearing out of his throat as the inferno roars into the early morning sky. The fire grows, engulfing the ready tinder of the forest floor, and Dean realizes in horror that the edge of the blaze is dangerously close to the still-dozing baby. 

He’s too far away to do anything, but he has to _try_. 

But then Cas is there, throwing a silver-gray hide -- his own sealskin! -- over the baby just as the flames start to lick the ground around him. White-hot flames twist over the skin in an instant, but it’s thick and protective like a fire blanket, and Cas scoops the baby up, unharmed, dancing out of the way. He leaves the silver hide behind, running for the protection of the nearby shoreline. 

With a simultaneous shout, Sam and Rowena clench their fists and raise their arms to the sky. The flames suddenly go out like a snuffed out candle, just before they spread into the forest proper around the cabin. 

For a moment, the only sounds are the muted lapping of the waves against the shore and the crying of seabirds wheeling in the dawn sky. A high, thin wail breaks out over the scene.

The baby is awake.

On the other side of the clearing, Sam helps Rowena stand, the two of them clearly exhausted but otherwise unharmed. Dean uses the wall of the cabin to stand as well, the back of his head still aching, but he no longer feels like he wants to throw up when he moves. Body stiff and battered, he limps his way over to his brother and Rowena.

“Sammy? You okay?”

Sam turns to him, naked relief on his face, and he folds Dean into a hug. “Yeah, we’re -- we’re all right. What about you?”

Dean wraps his own arms around his little brother, closing his eyes. “Been better. But you’re really okay? He didn’t hurt you?” He steps back and casts a critical eye over his brother.

“No, didn’t even touch us until almost the moment that you showed up. Said he needed as much blood as he could drain from us, and any drop shed beforehand was a drop wasted.”

“Aye,” Rowena agrees, casting a hateful glance at the burned corpse of Lucifer lying several yards away. “What he was working, it was a dark, powerful magic, I could tell.” She spits in the corpse’s direction. “If I could bring him back just to kill him again, I would.”

Dean nods. “Don’t blame you,” he says. “Do you know what he was trying to do?”

Rowena shakes her head, but a voice from behind interrupts them.

“He was planning on combining your magical essences with the sealskin of a selkie born under a new moon, which would have allowed him to unlock a reservoir of power that would rival a god’s. And then he planned on razing the world to create a so-called paradise for the selkies, so that we would no longer have to hide ourselves in fear.”

Dean turns to find Cas standing there, soaking wet, cradling the baby carefully against his chest. He looks down at the child in his arms, who is now red-faced but quiet. “Such children are incredibly rare for selkies. Jack here was born just about a year ago. His mother and I were good friends until Lucifer murdered her. And then when I learned what he was going to do with Jack, I tried to stop him by finding the two witches he planned to cultivate and sacrifice, but, well.” He shrugs, rueful. “A couple of Lucifer’s followers found me, stole my sealskin, and left me for dead. And that’s when Dean discovered me. The rest, well, I suppose you know.”

The three of them stare at Cas for a moment. He stares back. The baby -- Jack -- reaches up and pats at Cas’ chin, curious.

Dean breaks. He can’t stop himself, drawn like a magnet to the man in front of him who has risked so much to keep him -- no, to keep the entire _world_ \-- safe. His hands find the sides of Cas’ face, eyes suddenly blurry with tears, and he kisses him, pouring all the relief, the joy, the fear, the love within him into the press of his lips against Cas’ own. 

Cas kisses him back just as hard, the arm not holding Jack wrapping around Dean, pulling him closer. Through the kiss, Dean can feel the icy-hot sensation of Cas healing him shoot through his body, the ache in his head and the bruises around his throat disappearing. They end up pressing the baby between their chests, and he flails a little bit in Cas’ grip, kicking against Dean’s chest to express his distaste for the situation.

Dean pulls back with a breathless laugh, looking down and into Jack’s pale blue eyes, eerily similar to Cas’ own. “Sorry, buddy,” he says. “I’m just… really happy to see this guy right now.” He glances back up at Cas, taking a deep breath. _Time to stop being a coward, Winchester._ “And I should probably tell him I love him, while I’m at it.”

Cas’ eyes widen and a small, pleased smile starts to break across his face, before doubt descends like a cloud. “Really? Even after… I know I’ve hurt you, Dean.”

Dean’s heart aches for a moment at the reminder, but he shakes his head. “I don’t blame you, Cas. You were trying to keep me safe. We can move past that, but it’s not going to happen again.”

Cas nods, serious. “Yes,” he agrees. He shifts Jack in his arms, his smile returning. “Then I guess you should know that I love you, too.”

Dean lets himself touch the side of Cas’ face again, traces the line of his cheek, memorizing the curve of his grin. Cas brings his own hand up, capturing Dean’s so he can turn and kiss his palm. Overhead, the dawn-pink clouds slowly begin to fade to white as daybreak fades into morning.

Next to them, Sam coughs awkwardly, shattering the moment. Dean turns to glare at him. 

“Not that I’m not happy for you guys, and, obviously, thanks for saving us and everything,” he says, rubbing his hand through the hair at the back of his head, “but could we talk about next steps? I’m -- I’d love to go home. And maybe sleep for an entire month.”

Rowena starts walking towards the cabin. “I’m going to see if this homey little spot has functioning plumbing. When you boys have figured out the plan, come find me.” She gives them a little wave of her fingers.

“Um,” Sam says, looking after her with concern. “It’s been a rough 48 hours or so. Lucifer was -- I think she’s taking this kind of hard.”

“We’ll get you home,” Dean says, then hesitates, glancing at Cas. Is he… going to even want to come home? Back to landlocked Kansas? “Actually, Sam, can you give me and Cas a moment? Why don’t you go sit down, you look like shit. Oh,” he pauses, digging through his pockets for his phone and tossing it to Sam, “call Charlie and let her know we’re okay. She’s probably losing her shit right now. She helped me track your phone so I could find you.”

Sam nods. “I’ll be out front if you need me,” he says.

As he walks away, Dean gestures for Cas to follow him, walking closer to the shoreline. And then he stops, staring down at the ground.

Cas’ sealskin is there, tattered and badly burned, the once-smooth silver-gray hide streaked in ash and curling at the edges. There are several holes where the fire burned hotter and faster, other parts so thin that Dean can see the light shining through when he picks it up. It looks beyond repair, and he turns to Cas with a stricken look, holding out the skin for inspection.

“Cas, I’m so sorry,” he says, a sudden lump in his throat. This was everything Cas had fought to regain, lost once again in seconds. 

Cas runs a hand over the ruined hide, his face impassive. Jack squirms in his arms, starting to get fussy, and Cas absentmindedly bounces him. “I can’t wear that again,” he says, voice neutral. “It would… the burns would fuse to my skin, and I’d be trapped in that form forever, in constant agony.” He sucks in a breath, lets it back out again. “Without it, my magic will dwindle once more, until nothing remains.”

“You’d be human,” Dean realizes.

Cas nods. “Yes.”

Dean’s hands clench the destroyed skin. “I’m so sorry,” he says again. _This isn’t worth it. Even if he comes back to Kansas, he’ll forever resent being completely trapped on land._

To his surprise, Cas smiles, soft and barely there, but a smile nonetheless. “I’d do it all again to save you. To save Jack,” he says, reaching forward to twine the fingers of his free hand with one of Dean’s. “Let’s go home. We’ll figure it out from there.”

Dean squeezes his hand. “Okay,” he agrees. “Let’s go home.”


	9. Epilogue

_Seal Rock, Oregon. One year later._

“Fucking carseat,” Dean growls, untwisting a jammed strap that he swears he _just_ fixed a second ago. No matter how many times he does this, he can never get the stupid thing buckled in right on the first try. 

“Fuckin’ carseat!” Jack agrees, kicking his legs out happily in said seat. 

Dean stops and stares at the toddler, biting his lip to stop the laughter that bubbles up inside him. “Let’s not say that in front of Cas, maybe. How about it, kiddo?” 

“Don’t say what in front of me?” Cas’ deep voice asks behind him.

Dean whirls around, pasting an easy grin on his face. “Ah, nothing. Just joking around with Jack.” He gestures to one of the three duffel bags Cas is currently holding. “Is that his stuff? I’ll take that.”

Cas passes him the bag, rolling his eyes at Dean’s not-so-subtle deflection as he puts the other two in the trunk. “You packed enough clothes for him, right? And Sam’s new place has a washer there?”

“Yeah, he’s got enough clothes for a week, so I’ll definitely do laundry while we’re there. And you know Eileen wouldn’t move in somewhere without a washer and dryer within fifteen feet of their bedroom.” Dean unzips the duffel, searching through it for Jack’s favorite toy, a patchwork stuffed elephant. Without it, Jack would be absolutely inconsolable for the entire trip, and Dean really does _not_ want to contemplate a nearly two week stay at Sam and Eileen’s place with a fussy toddler. Eileen would be okay with it, but that’s because his brother’s girlfriend is extremely cool and extremely out of his brother’s league. 

He hands the elephant to Jack, who grabs it immediately. “Can you watch him for a sec, I’m gonna go grab Sam’s gift,” he says, zipping the bag back up and storing it on the floor. 

Cas nods, shifting next to Jack. “I’ll fix the mess you’ve made of the carseat, don’t worry,” he deadpans, fiddling with the straps.

“Fucking carseat!” Jack pipes in, and Dean winces but laughs. 

“What can I say, he’s a smart kid,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to Cas’ cheek. “Be right back!”

He jogs back to the house, listening as Cas begins to explain very seriously to Jack about certain language that shouldn’t be used in front of people. Inside, on the kitchen table, sits a neatly wrapped box with a “Congrats, Grad!” card addressed to Sam perched on top. There hadn’t really been any “Congrats on completing your apprenticeship and becoming a full witch and business partner!” cards or anything at the store, so Dean had compromised. 

Out the kitchen window, an osprey wheels over the bay in the distance, its shadow dancing along the water as it soars through the air, catching Dean’s eye. The waves are calm here, a gentle ebb and flow that drifts over the edge of the narrow shoreline not far from the back steps of the house. Suddenly, it’s as though he can see into the future as a vision strikes him: Cas and Jack swimming together in the water, Cas teaching him the secrets of the ocean, teaching him how to be both selkie and human; Dean grilling on the back porch, wedding ring glinting lightly in the evening sun as he calls the two of them in for dinner after getting back from his shift at the new hospital. 

It’s… an idyllic dream, Dean knows. One that is far more in reach than he ever thought would be possible. 

Blinking, Dean grabs Sam’s gift and heads back to the car, locking the door on the way out. Cas is making final adjustments to the trunk, and he shuts it as Dean walks up to him. “All set?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “All locked up. Let’s head out, before traffic gets bad.”

“Something we wouldn’t have to worry about if we just flew to Kansas,” Cas says, but the smirk on his face lets Dean know he’s joking. 

“You willing to take both me _and_ a toddler on a plane?” Dean asks, unable to resist poking at him.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Jack would be fine,” he says. “You would be the toddler.”

Dean grins, opening the car door for Cas. “And don’t you forget it,” he winks.

Cas rolls his eyes but slides into the Impala. Dean gets in on the driver’s side, turning the key in the ignition and listening to the Impala purr to life underneath him. “All of my Love” crackles across the radio, softly filling the car.

Without a word, Dean offers his hand in the space between them. Cas takes it automatically, the skin-warmed metal of the silver band around his finger catching against Dean’s palm. In the backseat, Jack watches them, his own hand clenched around his patchwork elephant. 

Two days to Kansas. Dean kisses Cas’ knuckles and starts driving.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/stuffy_jj) and [tumblr](https://stuffy-j.tumblr.com/).


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